


find your better

by parsnipit



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, David Acting as Max's Parental Figure | Dadvid (Camp Camp), Family Feels, Fluff, Foster Care, Gen, Gwen Acting as Max's Parental Figure (Camp Camp), Hurt/Comfort, On Hiatus, Protective David (Camp Camp), Protective Max (Camp Camp), and for that matter, get this boy some good parents stat, that's right it's another dadvid au fic, the world can never have enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 79,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24499108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: Camp Campbell didn’t teach Max respect, or manners, or—well, anything his parents wanted it to teach him. Instead, it taught him how to ruin a society of children with a handful of candy, how to build a trebuchet capable of launching rocks through David’s head (and how to make those rocks miss). It taught him that maybe, just maybe, some people are worth caring about—and it taught him that those same people are capable of caring about him, too.Max supposes that’s why he finds himself dialing David’s number in the middle of the night with shaking fingers and a bloody nose.
Relationships: David & Gwen (Camp Camp), David & Max (Camp Camp)
Comments: 211
Kudos: 592





	1. what i learned at camp this summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: child neglect, explicit child abuse (physical and emotional), violence, drug use, needles, blood, injuries, victim-blaming

“Let’s go home, Max,” Mama says, holding her hand out. He pretends not to see it, studying the rows of gaudily-wrapped candies on the grocery store shelf instead. It’s another one of capitalism’s thoughtful ploys—the shelf is level with his forehead, set up so every greedy child that strolls by gets an eyeful of sugary temptation. “...would you like one of those?”

“No,” he says, jamming his hands further into his hoodie pockets. He’d rather not plaster himself back under the  _ greedy spoiled child  _ banner quite yet. He’s managed to stay on her good side since his return from camp, and he’d like to keep it that way. “Let’s just go.”

“No, get one, it’s okay. Pick your favorite.”

His eyes flick uncertainly up to her face. Her dark eyes soften as she looks at him, a smile on her face. “Really? I mean, it’s kind of a giant waste of money.”

“Really,” she assures him, setting a hand on top of his head for a brief moment. “Consider it a welcome home present.”

Max reaches out, snagging a package of sour gummy worms before she changes her mind. After they check out of the store, he helps her pile plastic grocery bags into their car, then hops into the front seat. She climbs in on the driver’s side and fiddles with the radio until it blasts tinny ‘90s pop at them. Max groans and flops back in his seat, clamping his hands over his ears.

“Oh, hush, you,” Mama says as she pulls out onto the highway—but there’s a smile on her face and a teasing lilt in her voice. “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his trap.”

So Max shuts his trap and distracts himself from her horrific music choice by cramming gummy worms into his mouth. He wants to finish them before he gets home—better that Papa doesn’t know she’s been spoiling him. As they pull into the parking lot outside of their apartment complex, he frantically gulps down the last few worms and tilts the bag back to dump the excess sugar into his mouth. It leaves a sticky film on his teeth and a lingering sour taste under his tongue, but he likes it anyway. A whole summer with extremely limited access to candy (and wifi and running water and air conditioning and, you know, rational human beings) made him grateful for the little things.

Mama and he carry their groceries up the stairs to their apartment and go to work putting them all away. Once they’re finished, Mama retreats to the living room to smoke or snort or shoot up or whatever-the-fuck her choice is for drugging herself into oblivion today. Max, meanwhile, reaches for a couple packages of chicken-flavored ramen. He boils the noodles until they’re chewy, then drains off the water and sprinkles in two tiny tinfoil packets of seasoning. He ladles noodles into two bowls and carries them into the living room.

“Thank you, baby,” Mama says, accepting her bowl. A cigarette smolders between her lips, and there’s a fresh track mark in the crook of her elbow. Max settles down on the carpet in front of the TV to watch whatever gory action movie Mama has chosen, chowing down on his noodles. The first few spoonfuls scald his mouth, but it cools quickly, and before long he’s able to eat without grimacing around each bite. Once he finishes, he scoops up their bowls and carries them both back to the kitchen. Mama’s dozing already, so he carefully takes her needles and sets them on the kitchen table so she doesn’t accidentally jab herself on them. 

As he sets the needles down, the front door swings open and Papa steps inside. He shuts the door behind him, flipping the locks and shedding his suit jacket. His eyes flicker over Mama, briefly, disappointment crossing his face when he realizes she’s sleeping already. Then his eyes move to Max—to Max, and to the needles he has his hands on. A thunderously dark look enters his eyes.

Damn. Max hadn’t even made it a minute in the man’s good graces—that must be a new record.

“The hell are you doing with those?” Papa demands, striding forward. 

Max yanks his hand back, holding it close to his chest. “I was just moving them,” he says defensively. “Chill.”

“Why the fuck are you moving your mama’s stuff around, huh? This shit isn’t for kids,” Papa snaps, scooping the needles up and setting them on top of the fridge.

“I know that. I just didn’t want her to accidentally stab herself while she was sleeping. Pardon me for actually giving a shit.”

“You know better than to speak to me that way.” Papa turns back around, stepping into Max’s personal space. Max stumbles a step back, but the kitchen table halts his retreat. Suddenly, his father seems much bigger. “I’ve had about enough of your bitching, Max. You’ve been such a shit since you got back from that camp. I guess they let you run wild up there, huh? No discipline, no respect. Typical fucking Americans.”

Max should stop. He knows he should stop. He should drop his eyes and shut his mouth and hunch his shoulders and Papa will leave him alone. After all, he’s usually reasonable when he’s sober. He’ll let Max off with a warning, especially if Max mumbles an apology under his breath and keeps his head down for the rest of the night. That’s what Max  _ should  _ do—but, well, he’s never been very good at doing what he should. 

(He’s got the scars to prove it.)

“Maybe you shouldn’t have sent me there, then,” Max says, glaring up at his father. This man gave him the embers of rage that smolder constantly in his chest—but it was Camp Campbell (it was Nikki and Neil, it was Gwen and David and chaotic _freedom_ ) that allowed him to finally nurture it into something stronger. “But hey, I guess sending me there was better than putting up with me for three whole months, right? You couldn’t have survived that. I can’t imagine how _exhausting_ it would have been to take care of me like an actual fucking parent would’ve. I—”

Papa hits him. Of course Papa hits him.

Max muffles his yelp and cringes, bringing his arms up to shield his face from a second blow. Papa reaches forward, curling his hand into the collar of Max’s shirt and yanking him up. 

“You little cunt _ ,”  _ Papa hisses, his breath curdling against Max’s face. Max thrashes, trying desperately to free himself from his father’s grip. His sneakers strike Papa’s belly, and Papa drops him only to shove him backwards. “I see we need another lesson in respect.”

Max flails to catch his balance, and his hand strikes the saucepot on the stove. It crashes down, and hot ramen splatters across his arm and shoulder—not hot enough to scald him, thank fuck, but hot enough to feel goddamn unpleasant. He waves his arm wildly, flinging soggy noodles off of his skin. Mama jolts awake at the noise, lurching to her feet. 

“Rahul?” she says, her voice tight with fear. “Rahul, what are you doing?”

“Reminding our son of his manners,” Papa says, unbuckling his belt and pulling it through his belt loops with an ominous hiss. Max cringes against the fridge, his heart hammering violently in his chest. Mama takes a step forward, her hand clamped over her mouth—the second she moves, Papa whirls around, baring his teeth, and Mama flinches back. “You sit down now. This is a father’s responsibility. I’m not going to let our son grow up to be some foul-mouthed, disrespectful, arrogant piece of shit.”

_ Well,  _ Max thinks grimly,  _ at least I’d come by it honestly. _

Then Papa brings the belt down. Max turns his side to it to spare his face—the buckle catches him on the shoulder and he flinches violently. As Papa draws back for another swing, Max scrambles out of the kitchen and into the living room. He looks desperately at Mama, but there’s terror in her eyes, too, and she turns her face from him.

Fuck. Fuck it, fine. He’s on his own. What’s new?

(It just...it just stings worse, after those three months of  _ not  _ being on his own.)

Papa’s hand clamps down on the back of his neck, shoves him to his knees and slams his face to the wall. He cries out as his nose crunches against the plaster, bringing his hands up to cup it. His fingers come back damp with blood. His father’s shadow rises up behind him, and he barely chokes back a shout of terror as he hears the belt begin to descend again. It slams into his back, the buckle snagging at his shoulders and the thick leather whipping down his back. He presses his hands to his mouth, trying desperately to keep from crying out—he doesn’t want to give his father the satisfaction.

But he breaks in the end, just like he always does.

“Stop!” he shrieks several minutes later, when his back is a blur of hot agony and his muscles ache and cramp with each blow. He tries frantically to scramble to his feet, but his knees buckle under him and he collapses against the wall again, a reluctant sob tearing from his throat.  _ Fuck,  _ he feels so weak—so useless and pathetic and stupid. “Stop, Papa, please please I’m sorry I’m sorry please stop—”

“You bet you’re sorry, Max,” Papa says, his voice cold. He doesn’t even sound out of breath. He reaches forward, tangling calloused fingers into Max’s hair and yanking him away from the wall. He’s following their well-established ritual, and Max is almost grateful for it—it means this will be over soon. On the other hand, it also means the worst is yet to come. “Stand up.”

Max chokes on his own breath, his face burning with humiliation—but whatever inferno of rage he’d grasped at for strength less than half an hour ago has been savagely beaten back (as, he supposes, was his father’s intention). He staggers to his feet, scrabbling his hands at the wall to keep his balance. His legs shake with the effort to keep himself standing. Papa roughly rolls his shirt up and yanks his jeans and boxers down. When the belt strikes again, it strikes bare skin, and Max presses his forehead to the wall and grits his teeth as hot tears roll down his face. Shame boils in his chest, his throat, and he feels a certain dampness against his spine that means he’s bleeding all over Papa’s belt. He knows from experience that the actual leather will only leave bruises, but that _damnable_ metal buckle does far more damage whenever it snags and tears at his skin.

“Now, what do you say?” Papa demands brusquely, lashing the belt down again. “What do you say when you’re a little  _ asshole?” _

“Sorry!” Max gasps again, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sorry I’m sorry I’m really sorry—”

“Turn around when I speak to you. Look me in the eye like a man.”

Oh, Max  _ hates  _ turning around. That’s the worst part. The sooner he does it, though, the sooner he gets this whole shitfest over with—so he steels himself and turns around in one desperate breath, bringing his arms up to shield his face. Papa avoids striking his face or arms most of the time, lest the bruises show, but Max isn’t about to risk a stray lash breaking his nose or taking his eye out. He only lets his arms drop for a few seconds—just long enough to meet Papa’s eyes and tell him what he wants to hear. “Sorry,” he repeats, his voice cracking around another cry of pain. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Papa’s hands finally drop, the belt hanging loose at his side. “You remember that next time you think about smarting off to me or your mother, boy. Get to your room. I don’t wanna see your fuckin’ face the rest of the night.”

Max yanks his clothes back into their proper position, viciously ignoring the way the fabric chafes against his sore skin, and bolts to his room. He crams himself under his bed, gasping to catch his breath. Violent shivers roll through his body. Tears cling messily to his face. Blood clots on his upper lip. On his back, the bleeding welts cause his shirt to stick and itch. Anger curls in his throat, but even more powerful than that is the black, rotting  _ shame  _ beaten into his back. Fuck. Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck it all.  _

He buries his face against his arms and sobs. He wants to go back to camp. God, he never thought he’d  _ ever  _ say that. Camp had been a hot, dry, exhausting, messy, annoying experience. The other campers had gotten under his skin so easily, and the hare-brained activities they did were torture when all Max wanted to do was stay in his tent, stay alone and shielded and safe from the world. But—

But it had been different, hadn’t it, at the end? He’d eased those shields of his down long enough to see the world again. Of course, he hadn’t kept them down. The world is an awful, dangerous place (even David had agreed once, hadn’t he?) and Max  _ hates  _ feeling vulnerable. Still, he’d started to enjoy the little glimpses he got. Nikki and Neil made him feel needed, made him feel  _ wanted.  _ With them—with most of the campers, and even with the counselors—he had felt smart and respected and worth listening to. He was the schemer, the mischief-maker, the ringleader. He was an asshole, he talked back, he did things his own way, he raged against the  _ fucking machine— _

He had been everything his father hated about him, and no one tried to beat it out of him.

Oh, that’s not to say he hadn’t tried to provoke it. That’s what getting under David’s skin had been all about that first month, hadn’t it? He’d wanted to break David—he’d wanted to prove to himself that the world really  _ was  _ the awful place he thought it was, that he was justified in having his shields, and that such unconditional kindness and optimism was only a fluke. 

But Max had failed.

Even when David had been at his lowest, his hands bleeding from broken flintstone and his clothes soaked to his skin with freezing rain and his perfect day falling apart around him, he’d never hurt Max. He’d been sharp, he’d been  _ angry,  _ but he hadn’t even made a move in Max’s direction. Instead, he’d told Max to go back to his tent in case he caught a cold by standing in the rain. He’d...cared. Even when he was brokenhearted and furious with Max, he’d cared.

It’s a horrible knowledge to have—knowing that someone is capable of being that gentle, of caring that much, and knowing, at the same time, that his own parents refuse to. What did he do wrong? What did he do to make them hate him so much? Why does he deserve this, deserve  _ them? _ He knows he’s mean and nasty and cruel and manipulative, but—

But David cared anyway.

...Max really wants to go back to camp.

“Max?” Mama slips into his room, easing the door shut behind her. “Are you okay?”

“Go away,” he says, sniffing and wiping blood and snot angrily away from his nose. 

She kneels next to the bed, setting down a bowl of water and a washcloth. “Come out here, please.”

He wants to tell her  _ no,  _ he wants to bite and kick and scream and show her just how hurt and  _ angry _ he is—but the pain wracking his body keeps him docile and obedient the way David never could (never even wanted to, Max thinks). He pulls himself out from under the bed, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. “What do you want?”

“I just want to make sure you aren’t hurt too badly,” she whispers, motioning for him to take off his shirt. He does so reluctantly, hunching in on himself once he’s exposed. The lashes from the belt stand out as raised red welts on his skin, but he knows they’ll be darkening quickly. Mama’s breath hitches when she sees them, and she bites her lip. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. He got you good this time, didn’t he?”

Max hugs himself, wincing as she begins to wipe away the blood crusting on his skin.

Mama stays silent for a moment, studying the scars that litter his skin. Then: “Max, I know you have a big spirit. You’re just like your father was when he was younger. Rowdy, the both of you, hard-headed and proud and ambitious. That’s why the two of you don’t get along, you know. You’re too much alike.”

Max’s stomach turns at the thought.

“But, well—you’ve also both got a mean streak,” she admits. “You have to be more careful, Max. You can’t go around pissing him off the way you do. You’re always bringing trouble down on your own head. If you’d just do what he tells you, things would be a lot easier.”

“...what?”

“You know what he’s like. He wants you to mind him. When you talk back to him, when you—”

The embers of rage in Max’s chest, so recently stomped out, begin to flicker hungrily again.“So what?” he demands, snagging the washcloth from her so he can scrub his own wounds off with vigorous intent. “So it’s my fault? So he’s supposed to do this? You think it’s right?”

“Max, it’s his responsibility to discipline you. That’s how he was raised, and his father before him, and—”

_ “No,  _ Mama. He doesn’t have to do this. I don’t care if it’s fucking  _ family tradition  _ to beat your children.” Max tugs his shirt back on, pulling his knees to his chest and hugging them tightly. “David never did that, and I went out of my way to try and get him to snap. People don’t need to hurt other people. It’s a choice. It’s a fucking choice Papa makes over and over and  _ over  _ again—”

“He just wants you to be better,” Mama soothes, setting a hand on his knee—despite her attempts to calm him, she looks distraught, like she doesn’t believe half of what she’s saying. “He only wants what’s best for you, baby, really. I know he has an odd way of showing it, sometimes, but he really does love you.”

“If that’s what love is,” Max says, his voice curling bitter and dark in his throat, “then I don’t fucking want it.”

Max lurches to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. His body aches furiously, and he wavers on his feet. He pushes brutally through the pain and snatches his backpack out of the closet, digging out old binders and folders and unfinished homework sheets to dump them all on the floor. To replace them, he crams in shirts and socks and pants and boxers.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yeah, actually, I do. You know what I learned at camp this summer? Not, of course, that you ever even asked.” He scoops Mr. Honeynuts up, setting the bear gently into his backpack. “I sure as hell didn’t learn how not to be an asshole. I learned that people, for some absolutely unfathomable reason, are capable of giving a shit about me even  _ when _ I’m an asshole. I learned that there’s something better than this out there, even if I can’t see it the way David can.”

“...who’s David?”

Max zips his backpack. “I need to borrow your phone.”

When he looks up, Mama’s eyes gleam with tears. His heart aches for her—he knows she’s as scared as he is, when it comes to Papa, and she didn’t have a summer camp to show her she’s anything more than a glorified punching bag. She’s been stuck with Papa even longer than Max has been. A sudden surge of pity lodges a lump in his throat, and he reaches out to take her hand. 

“You don’t have to stay here,” he whispers. She shakes her head, already looking away from him. “Mama, no, you don’t. You don’t have to stay with him. You can leave, you can find something better, you can  _ be  _ something better.”

“No,” she says, tears spilling down her cheeks. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Mama, please—”

“I’m not brave like you are anymore.” She kneels in front of him, setting her hands on his shoulders. “I made a pledge to that man, for better or for worse, but you—you didn’t make that pledge. You didn’t ask for this. I know he is not the best father, and I am not the best mother, but if I can do this for you I will.”

Mama reaches into her pocket, pulling out her phone and pressing it into his hands. She enfolds his hands within her own for a moment, her slim brown fingers squeezing tightly. Max’s eyes sting with a fresh bout of tears, and he clings to the phone the way he’s never clung to anything before. 

“But listen to me, Max. I know a little about leaving your home to follow a dream—far too often, that dream is not as grand as everyone would have you believe.” A grim smile flickers across her face, and he thinks of the courage it had to take to leave behind her homeland and come to a new nation with nothing to her name but hope. Where is that courage now? What took it away from her? Was it the prejudice? Was it the drugs, the depression, Papa? 

Was it Max? 

“You know what could happen to you,” Mama continues. “To us. They’ll take you, they’ll put you in the system. You could be hurt there, too. You’re brown, Max, and not a baby anymore. You will not be adopted. You’ll grow up away from us until you’re an adult—we may not be able to visit you, even. The police will come, they will arrest your father. They will arrest me, and oh, how I’m frightened. This is the price you will pay for leaving.”

Max glances away, guilt and fear creeping through his chest in equal measure.

“But if it a price you are brave enough to pay, than I will not let my own cowardice stop you.” She releases his hands, and he thinks, perhaps, that she’s braver than she believes. “If you really want to go, if you truly believe there is better for you out there, then I will not stand in your way. I’ll distract your father while you make your phone call. Go and find your better, Max, if it really is out there.”

Mama slips out of his bedroom, and Max sucks in a shuddering breath. He rummages through his bedside drawer, pulling out the slip of paper he’d scribbled all the important phone numbers from camp on. The one near the middle of the list (signed with a squiggly smiley face by the name) is the one he dials first.

* * *

For dinner, David makes himself a scrumptious meal of chicken alfredo pasta and fruit salad. He peels and slices the fruit with infinite care, glad to have something to focus both his hands and mind on. He’s gotten a tad antsy since leaving camp—the lack of constant emotional and physical duress leaves him floundering. He also has an unfortunate amount of free time, now that he isn’t trying to keep small uncontrollable children entertained so they don’t riot. Filling that free time has always been something of a challenge for him.

Fortunately, Sleepy Peak’s school year will be starting up again in a couple of weeks, and he’ll be busy as a bee again. He’s already starting to work on his lesson plans—soon he’ll have to go in and start decorating the classroom. He sketches out a few ideas for aforementioned decorations as he eats. Everyone will need personalized nametags for their desks and cubbies, of course, and he’ll need to pick up Harold the Classroom Pet from his summer stay at Mrs. Nicole’s. He’ll do summer-themed decorations this month, he thinks, since he’s still clinging to those last vestiges of fireflies and singing cicadas and sunny, windless afternoons. 

Once he’s finished eating, David washes his dishes and files his sketches away for further reference. He practices his guitar for a little while, although that soon enough turns to plucking out aimless chords as he watches the weather channel. There’s a storm rolling in, it looks like. He sticks his head outside for a moment, and the air has cooled significantly. Dark clouds brew high over his head, churning and curling with the wind. In the distance, lightning flickers. He ducks back inside, tucking his guitar into its case and heading for the bathroom.

David hums a campfire song quietly to himself as he brushes his teeth—clean teeth are, after all, a key component to any healthy bedtime routine! He rinses his mouth and his toothbrush, then flosses carefully before tugging on a ratty t-shirt and boxers. After that, he settles down in his armchair and tugs out the 1965  _ Old Farmer’s Almanac  _ for some light reading. The lamp in the corner of the den spills warm yellow light across the weathered pages as he turns them, browsing the intricate details of 1965’s weather and planting seasons. Outside, rain begins to patter on the roof.

It takes about forty-five minutes of reading to settle the constant, excited chatter in the back of his head. It’s certainly not the most exciting of Friday nights, but he finds the routine peaceful. After his forty-five minutes of reading are up, he slips  _ The Old Farmer’s Almanac  _ back into its proper place on the bookshelf and heads for bed. He uses the restroom one last time, fills a glass of water and sets it down on his bedside table, then slips into his sheets with a comfortable sigh. A shivering full-body stretch follows next—he splays his fingers and arches his back and wiggles his toes. Then he curls up and he finally, finally closes his eyes. Good night’s sleep, here he comes!

A few minutes later, the phone rings.

David groans, flailing to snatch the offending racket-maker from his bedside table. The light nearly sears his eyeballs out of his face when he turns it on, and he whines and squeezes his eyes shut before gradually squinting them back open. He doesn’t recognize the number on his screen, but people don’t tend to call this late at night unless it’s something important. He answers, holding the phone up to his ear and trying not to sound as sleepy as he feels. “Hi there, who’s this?”

For a moment, the line crackles with silence. David’s brow furrows with confusion. Just as he’s about to pull the phone away to glance at the screen—maybe it was a wrong number and they hung up?—a ragged, uncertain voice answers him. 

“...David?”

David sits bolt upright, his eyes flying wide. Whatever hopes he had for sleep that night are immediately dashed. Even  _ The Old Farmer’s Almanac  _ couldn’t calm him after this, because he recognizes that voice. How on earth could he  _ not  _ recognize it after three straight months of it shouting at him near-constantly? 

_ “Max?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand we're off to a very rocky start !!! this chapter is probably the worst as far as explicit abuse/neglect goes (what a way to start a fic ffffff). after this, it's all uphill!! or as uphill as recovery and the american foster care system can be, anyway u.u
> 
> feel free to hmu with those comments or send an ask over at my [tumblr](https://parsnipit.tumblr.com/) if you wanna!! i love getting to talk to new people !!!! :D


	2. it's stormy out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: explicit child abuse (emotional and physical), mentions of child neglect, mentions of drug abuse, injuries, strangulation, violence

“Max, what in the world are you doing up so late?” David asks, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “You should be sleeping, you—”

“I need your help.”

David’s eyes widen, his breath stuttering. Max _hates_ asking for help. For him to have called this late at night to ask for help from David, of all people, something must be terribly wrong. Fear creeps across his shoulders, chills in his chest, and he stands and urgently slaps on the overhead lights. His stunned silence must last a second too long, because Max quickly begins speaking again.

“You said I could call you if I ever needed to,” Max says—the nervous, pleading tone in his voice fills David with dread, because Max never sounds like that, never ever. “You said you would help if I needed anything, you told me you’d help, you  _ promised _ .”

“I’m going to help however I can, Max,” David assures him, rubbing his eyes and stumbling to his feet. “I just need you to tell me what’s wrong. What can I do?”

“I need you to come pick me up.”

David falters. “What?”

“I need you to come get me. In a car, preferably, but like—whatever. A train, a bus, a fucking jet plane will work, I don’t care. Just get me out of here.”

“Why on earth do you want me to do that? Do your parents know? Do they—”

“It doesn’t matter why or what my parents think,” Max snaps. “I just need you to pick me up right now. Come on, do you seriously think I’d be asking you for something if I didn’t really need it? This is  _ humiliating.” _

“I—no, I know. It’s just that that’s kinda sorta kidnapping, which, um, is a felony in all fifty states and all that. Where are your parents? Can I talk to them? Maybe we can sort this all out with a nice heart-to-heart!”

“There is nothing to sort out. It’s you or the police, and believe it or not I actually prefer you for once in my life.”

“The police?” David’s heart drops, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. “Max, what’s going on? What happened?”

For a moment, the line crackles with silence as Max hesitates. David scrambles to tug his pants and shoes on. Whatever’s happening, it’s clearly frightening the un-frightenable Max, and it terrifies David to think of the danger his little camper could be in. Then Max says, his voice suddenly flat, “My papa hurts me sometimes, and I’m really tired of it.”

Horror slices through him at Max’s confession; his breath stops cold, his heart crashes in his chest. Max is—hurt, Max is hurt, oh goodness Max is hurt—

“Are you okay?” he asks immediately. “Right now, are you okay? Are you safe?”

“I’m okay. Nothing is broken or bleeding at the moment. I’m in my room for the night, so I don’t think he’ll bother me again, but I don’t—I just really don’t want to be here in the morning. You’ve got to help me get out of town. You don’t have to keep me; I just need a place to stay for a few days while I figure shit out.”

“Okay, that’s—we can figure the details out later. What’s your address?”

“You’ll come get me?”

“I’m walking out the door right now,” David says. Max gives David his address, and David quickly plugs it into the GPS on his phone. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Will you be okay until then?”

“Yeah, I think. Just—hurry?”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can, I promise. Stay in your room, okay? If your dad tries to hurt you again, call the police—and don’t go near him if you can help it.”

“Believe me, I wasn’t planning on it. But don’t you want me to meet you outside so you won’t have to deal with my parents?”

“No, stay inside, in your room. Don’t come out until I get you. Will your parents be asleep?”

“Uh, by the time you get here, probably. I can’t make any promises, though. My mama’s okay with me leaving, so I’ll try to get her to leave the front door unlocked for you.”

“I’d like to speak with her.”

“My mom?”

“Yes. If not now, then when I come to pick you up—unless you think she’d hurt you, I mean.”

“No, she usually doesn’t.”

_ Usually.  _ David’s stomach twists as he lurches into his truck, quickly jamming his phone onto the charger. “Right, okay, that’s—uh, good. Can I talk to her?”

“She’s busy right now, but you can talk to her when you get here. Just try to be quiet. I don’t want Papa getting involved, especially with an unlucky, injury-prone twig like you.”

“I’ll do everything I can to get you out of there without confronting him,” David promises, peeling out onto the highway and heading north.  _ Although,  _ he thinks bitterly,  _ what I wouldn’t give to confront him. How could anyone hurt Max like that? Little Max!  _ “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

“No, it’s okay. Mama’s going to want her phone back soon, and I need to finish packing. So, um—see you in a couple of hours, I guess.”

“See you in a couple of hours, Max. Stay safe.” 

David reluctantly hangs up. It feels like a jagged boulder has suddenly taken up residence in his stomach, and he can’t quite get his breathing to steady. Max is in danger. Max could be hurt at any moment, Max is trapped in a house with an abusive, dangerous, fully-grown man and David’s not there, David can’t get to him, David can’t save him, David can’t—

David takes a deep breath to calm himself, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. It’s okay. It’s  _ going  _ to be okay. He’ll be there in just a couple of hours, and he’ll take Max straight to the police—if not tonight, then first thing tomorrow morning. He knows Max won’t like it, but David likes felony charges even less. Besides, he’s a mandated reporter. Informing the authorities of abuse is a responsibility he takes very seriously. The police need to be involved if he wants to keep Max safe and out of that house. (The fact that Max’s father may be tossed into a prison to rot is, of course, a very tempting bonus.)

...but what happens to Max, after all of that? If he can’t stay with his mother or father (as it very well sounds like the case may be), then where will he go? David wonders if he has any close relatives he could stay with—but since his options were  _ David or the police,  _ David thinks that’s probably not the case. Still, he can’t stand the thought of Max being thrown into the system and bouncing from stranger’s house to stranger’s house for the next eight years. It isn’t often, after all, that kids Max’s age are actually adopted. 

Besides, Max is just so _grumpy._ He’s a conniving troublemaker, a foul-mouthed manipulator, a con artist extraordinaire—and while David doesn’t mind that most of the time (it’s just part of what makes Max, well, _Max)_ , he knows the same can’t be said for many foster families. Not everyone is as patient and determined as David is, after all! 

A very rash thought crosses David’s mind a half-second later, and he nearly chokes on it. There’s no way  _ he  _ could foster Max, is there? He doesn’t have a fostering license, or any fostering experience whatsoever, really, and—

And so what? He could learn. He could get his license. It wouldn’t be easy, but nothing with Max ever is. Even so, it’s always been worth it. Max deserves better than being forgotten in the system. Besides, the two of them may not always get along, but David considers them to be friends (and he thinks, given that Max called him before anyone else, that Max considers them to be friends too—although he’d probably rather die than admit it). 

But  _ David?  _ His foster parent, really? The apartment isn’t big enough! David only has the one bedroom, so he’d need to move somewhere spacier. Of course, his workdays at the school would align perfectly with Max’s once the academic year started, so he wouldn’t need a babysitter, and the two of them would go to camp together during the summer. He already knows all of Max’s fickle tendencies and moods, and they  _ did  _ live together for three months. Really, fostering him wouldn’t be much of a jump—

Oh, what is he  _ thinking?  _ There’s a huge difference between being a camp counselor and being a foster parent! Besides, he’s—he’s really getting ahead of himself, isn’t he? He needs to focus on first things first: getting Max safe. With that resolution in mind, he focuses his eyes on the storm in the distance and drives on.

The drive is a hideously long one—anxiety pools in his stomach the longer he doesn’t hear from Max, his mind plaguing him with all kinds of horrible scenarios. By the time he pulls into the parking lot of Max’s apartment complex, his fingers have a death-grip on the wheel and a cold sweat sticks his t-shirt to his back. Oh, he’s going to make such a terrible first impression on Max’s mother! He’s still in his pajama shirt, and he hasn’t brushed his hair, and he has no doubt he looks absolutely frantic. 

David scrambles out of his truck, heading up the wooden staircase and looking desperately for Max’s apartment number. When he finds it—the door sits right off of the stairs, just like Max said it would—his knees go weak with relief, and he lifts his hand to knock before pausing. Quiet. Right, he has to be quiet. He bites his lip, moving his hand down to the doorknob. As he begins to turn it, voices raise inside the apartment, and he freezes.

“Nikita?” A man’s voice, low and weary. It sends a shot of terror (and no small amount of anger) down David’s spine. “What are you doing up?”

“Getting a drink,” a woman answers. He hears soft footsteps against carpet, and he gulps as they draw closer to the door. Quiet. Oh, jeez, he’s never been good at quiet. “I’ll be back to bed in a moment, dear.”

“You had water on the end table.”

The woman’s response lags. “I—did I? I must not have seen it in the dark. I’ll just drink that, then.”

“You’ve been acting strange all night.” Heavier footsteps follow the woman’s. Shadows bleed out from the crack at the bottom of the door as the lights inside the apartment flick on. David takes a nervous step back, and the wooden boards creak ominously beneath him. He cringes, clasping his hands over his mouth, as though  _ that’s  _ going to help. The man’s voice speaks again, immediately suspicious: “What was that?”

“Oh, the wind—you know it’s stormy out. Let’s go back to bed.”

The man ignores her, his footsteps plunging forward. The apartment door swings open, and David gulps as a square of golden light (and a patch of the man’s dark, heavy shadow) falls over him. Drat! There goes that sneaky plan. Max is going to be so upset with him. It’s some consolation that the man in front of him isn’t physically intimidating by any means; he’s scrawny and short, with brown skin, a scraggly beard, curled black hair, and pale green eyes. He looks so much like Max it’s almost ridiculous—especially when he levels David with an irritated glower.

There’s no doubt who David is looking at right now: the bastard who hurt an innocent child, who hurt his own son, who hurt _Max._

“Who the fuck,” the man says, “are you?”

“Rahul, please,” the woman says, latching onto the man’s arm. She’s scrawny, too, although her scrawniness speaks of ill health more than it does anything else, as do the deep bags under her eyes and the drawn appearance of her skin. That, in combination with the track marks littering her arms, does not lead David to a comforting conclusion.

“Don’t touch me,” Rahul snaps, shrugging her off. “What the hell are you up to, sneaking around in the middle of the night while this bastard hides outside our front door? Are you fucking him? Is that it? You a whore, cheating on me while I’m sleeping in the room over?”

“No! No, no, never, I’d never do that to you!”

David clears his throat, raising a hand. “Um, excuse me? I think I can clear this up.”

Both of their eyes fix on him.

“Well?” Rahul demands. “Do it, then.”

“I’m just here for Max.”

“...what.” Rahul blinks at him. 

“For Max,” David repeats. “I’m here to pick him up. I’d like to do so calmly and politely, so we don’t stress him out too much. After all, he’s been through enough today, don’t you think?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rahul demands. “You can’t just show up here and demand to take my fuckin’ kid in the middle of the night.”

“I couldn’t take him if his parents didn’t want me to—but I don’t think that’s entirely the case.” David looks hopefully at Nikita, and Rahul looks at her like she’s poisoned him.

“I—Rahul, please,” Nikita says, clasping her hands in front of her. Her fingers shake. “Please, Max doesn’t want to stay. Let him go.”

“What is this about? This about earlier? He thinks he gets to run away just because he doesn't like it when I put him in place? That little spineless brat.” Rahul’s hands ball into fists. “No! No, nobody’s taking him out of this house, not today, not next week, not  _ ever.  _ He’s fuckin’ grounded, you hear me? On fuckin’ house arrest until we get his attitude sorted.”

“Rahul, you can’t,” Nikita says, raising her voice. “You can’t do this anymore, you—”

Rahul turns and backhands her hard enough to send her stumbling. She cries out, bringing her hand up to cradle her cheek, and David—

Well, David prides himself on being a pacifist. Most any problem can be solved with hugs, or good food, or communication, or a combination of the three! He just  _ loathes  _ violence. Sure, it feels good in the moment, but it’s rarely justified. Besides, he’s more than capable of controlling his emotions and actions. He’s very patient and very tolerant and very, very good at letting people walk all over him!

But there are always exceptions.

“Rahul,” David says. The word tastes like ice, cold and sharp. Rahul turns to look at him, and David twists to the side before slamming his fist forward; his knuckles greet Rahul’s nose very intimately and very forcefully. He hears a rather pleasing  _ crunch,  _ and then Rahul howls and arches backwards, grasping desperately at the blood that begins to pour from his nostrils. 

“You  _ motherfucker.”  _ Rahul bares his teeth in a snarl. “I’ll fucking kill you, I’ll smear your guts all over the sidewalk, you little—”

“Stop it!”

David freezes, his eyes immediately drawn to that little, furious shout. He hasn’t heard it in a couple of weeks, but it’s lost none of its familiarity. Max stands next to his mother, fists balled up at his sides and anger burning in his eyes. He storms a few steps towards his father, and David takes his own step forward, reluctant to let Max anywhere near Rahul. 

“Max—” David starts, his voice tight with worry.

“Shut up, David,” Max bites out. Then he lifts his chin towards his father, the very picture of defiance, and begins to speak again. “And you, you dumb fuck,  _ leave David alone!  _ Don’t you dare touch him, and you sure as hell don’t touch my mama! I’m sick and tired of letting you do this, you piece of shit—you’re a stupid, hateful, arrogant, piss-poor excuse for a father and I am  _ done  _ putting up with your bullshit!”

Rahul looks at Max for a long moment, grimly silent. David immediately steps further into the apartment and puts himself between them. He hears Max move, but the child doesn’t attempt to edge around him—instead, he sets a hand on the back of David’s knee. David can feel how hard he’s shaking. He can’t imagine the courage it took Max to confront his father that way, and for a moment, he even dares to think that Max’s spiel has done some sort of good, that Rahul is actually going to let them leave without a fight.

Optimism still gets him into trouble, sometimes.

Rahul lunges forward, wrapping his hands around David’s throat and squeezing. David’s eyes widen, and he claws desperately at Rahul’s fingers. The two of them stumble and stagger, driven by Rahul’s weight—headed for the apartment door and, David realizes in a panic, for the staircase.

“No!” Max shouts, lurching towards the two of them even as his mother snatches desperately for him. David sees him land a very impolite, under-the-belt blow against his father, who wheezes in pain but still doesn’t let go of David. His fingers don’t even loosen, and David is really really starting to want air right about now. He lashes out, gouging at Rahul’s eyes with his nails, but Rahul squeezes them shut and ducks his head so David can’t do anything more than tear curly clumps from his hair. “Let go! Papa let go of him, let go let go I said  _ let go—” _

Max lunges up, grabbing his father’s forearm and sinking his teeth into his wrist. Rahul cries out, finally yanking his hands away from David’s throat. David sucks in a lungful of much-needed air, his eyes watering, and digs his heels into the flooring beneath them to halt his impromptu trip to the staircase. For a moment, relief rules. He can  _ breathe.  _ He can breathe, and now that Rahul is distracted, he may even be able to win this fight. He just has to get Max out of the way, first—then David realizes exactly what Rahul is doing to Max, and his heart stops. 

Rahul grabs the back of Max’s hoodie, jerking Max off of him and dangling him in the air. Max thrashes, kicking viciously at his father and struggling to yank the collar of his hoodie down so it doesn’t strangle him. Rahul takes a few brisk steps forward, and then, in one swift motion, he throws Max down the stairs.

“No! Max! _Max!”_ David shrieks, already bolting for the staircase as fear slams into him like a cold wave, more powerful than any fear he’s ever felt before because that’s Max, that’s his camper, that’s his _kid._

His only response is the sickening crack of bone and a child’s agonized scream.


	3. your testimony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: discussions of child abuse (physical and emotional, and briefly sexual) + neglect, hospital setting, surgery, needles, medical procedures, blood, descriptions of injuries

David practically leaps down the stairs, dropping to his knees next to Max. He holds his hands out but doesn’t touch Max yet—he doesn’t know where the child is hurt or if moving him will make things worse. Max, meanwhile, has no such qualms about moving. He hugs his right arm tightly to himself, scrambling to sit up and scoot backwards. His chest heaves, and he spares David a brief, desperate glance before riveting his eyes on his father again. 

His father, who is coming down the stairs.

David surges to his feet, standing protectively in front of Max. His height isn’t often an advantage, but at the very least it allows him to loom over Rahul as the man approaches him. “Stop. Stop it, stop, stay away from him.” When Rahul doesn’t stop moving forward, David raises his voice and shouts, _“I said stay the fuck away from him!”_

A door slams open next door. “What the  _ fresh hell  _ is going on out here?” a neighbor demands, her eyes blazing. A pair of particularly small dogs yap around her slippered feet. “It’s two in the morning! Pipe down or I’ll—”

She falters when she sees Max, huddled against the far wall and breathing hard. Her eyes roam across David and Rahul, and they widen when she sees the blood smearing Rahul’s nose and mouth. David doesn’t dare take his eyes off of Rahul—he’ll be damned if he lets that bastard get a single step closer to Max—but he lifts his voice to plead with the neighbor. “Ma’am, I need you to call the police before someone gets hurt.”

_ Or at least,  _ he thinks bitterly,  _ more hurt than they already are. _

The neighbor doesn’t question him—the sight of a terrified ten-year-old hiding behind two angry men must be enough evidence for her—and immediately ducks back inside, calling for her husband. The first flicker of uncertainty begins to enter Rahul’s eyes, and it only grows as a sturdy man strides out of the neighbor’s apartment and plants himself between Rahul and David.

“Now, gentlemen,” he says, his voice hard. “I think that’s quite enough.”

“He’s kidnapping my son,” Rahul says, gesturing wildly at Max. “He’s a fuckin’ kidnapper, he ought to be—”

“Save it for the police,” the man says, shooting David a glare when he opens his mouth.  _ “Both  _ of you.”

David will  _ gladly  _ leave it to the police. As tempted as he is to bash Rahul’s face in, he has much more important things to tend to. He turns his back on Rahul and kneels next to Max. Max’s eyes squint with pain, his breath coming in choppy gasps as he clutches his arm. He flinches as David nears him, and David holds his hands up, palms out and nonthreatening.

“It’s okay,” he says gently, as though speaking to a cornered, wounded animal—which is, he supposes, not all too far from the truth. “I’m not gonna touch you. How’s your arm?”

“Broken,” Max says tersely. 

David winces sympathetically. He’s had his fair share of broken bones, and he knows just how unpleasant they can be. If he had only been able to get to Rahul faster, if he had been strong enough to fight Rahul off without Max’s help, if he had—

“Don’t look like that,” Max orders.

“Like what?”

“Like a kicked dog. It’s not your fault, stupid. Just—” Max tries to shift into a more comfortable position against the wall, then cringes and slumps down again when the movement proves too painful for him. David wants to help him, but he’s still not sure how well his touch would be received, so he keeps his hands in his lap.

“Just what, Max?” David coaxes. He bristles when he hears movement behind him, shifting his body defensively in front of Max’s—but it’s only the neighbor’s wife returning, speaking urgently with the man who has Rahul pinned under a death glare. 

“Just don’t leave,” Max whispers. “I don’t want the police to take you.”

“Oh.” David’s heart sinks, and he settles down cross-legged in front of Max. “I—I’ll try to stay with you as long as I can, but I will need to speak with them eventually.”

“What’s going to happen to you? Are you in trouble?”

“Maybe,” David admits. “I did hit your father.”

“Yeah, after he hit my mama! It’s not your fault! You shouldn’t get in trouble for that, come on—you should get a medal or something.”

A smile begins to creep across David’s face, and Max’s eyes widen when he realizes his mistake. “You think so, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,  _ camp man. _ It doesn’t mean anything.” Max glares at him, but it’s a faltering glare at best—the gleam of pain in his eyes prevents it from lasting very long. “I’ll tell the police you did it because I asked you to. I don’t want to be the reason your painfully prude police record loses its virginity.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Yeah, well.” Max shrugs with one shoulder, keeping his right arm carefully immobilized against him. “It’s my fault you’re in this stupid mess, anyway.”

“Max—”

“No, it  _ is.  _ Don’t even try to put your positive spin on this or I’ll vomit all over you.” Max casts a lingering, worried glance at his father over David’s shoulder. Whatever he sees must make him uncomfortable, because his eyes immediately skitter away again. “David?”

“Yes?”

“...what’s going to happen to me?”

“You’re going to the hospital, first of all. You’ll need to get that arm looked at, as well as any other, um, injuries you may have. After that, I assume the police and CPS will want to talk to you. They’ll probably try to decide whether your removal from the house is justified—and trust me, they’ll decide that it is, especially if you’re honest with them about what happened tonight. After that, it’s hard to say, but a foster home seems likely, at least for a little while.”

Max’s eyes drop, studying the toes of his tattered sneakers intently. “...so I can’t go with you?”

“I’m not a licensed foster parent. I’m sorry, Max.” Guilt sits as a crushing weight on David’s chest, and he wants nothing more than to tell Max  _ yes absolutely you can come with me right now,  _ but that’s irresponsible of him and he knows it. He’s not ready to give Max the life he deserves—

Not just yet.

“But I want to go with you,” Max whispers. His voice cracks, and David’s heart splinters into a million pieces when he sees the glisten of tears rolling down Max’s cheeks. “I wanted—I wanted to go home with you.”

“I know.” David reaches out, gently setting a hand on Max’s uninjured shoulder. To his relief, Max doesn’t flinch away from him. “Listen to me. I am  _ not  _ going to leave you alone to deal with this. I am going to do everything I can to make sure you get the home and the family you deserve.”

“You can’t promise that.” Max swipes furiously at his eyes. “I’m a ten-year-old Indian kid with a horrible attitude and a history of trouble in school that borders on juvenile delinquency—no one’s going to want me there to fuck up their perfect family!”

_ “I  _ want you.” 

David realizes it’s true the moment he says it. He wants Max. He wants to be brave enough and responsible enough to raise Max. Of course it’s going to be difficult, and maybe painful, and some major changes are going to have to happen very soon, but he believes he can do it. He thinks  _ they  _ can do it, together. They’d come so far in only three months at camp—who’s to say they won’t keep improving? David can do this. He’s going to use every resource at his disposal to make sure he’s the family Max deserves, and god help anyone or anything who tries to get in his way.

Max pauses, then peeks suspiciously up at him through a sheen of tears. “...what?”

“I want to foster you, Max.”

“But you just said—”

“I’m not a licensed foster parent  _ right now.  _ I’m going to try to get my license, but that takes a few months. I’m going to press for an interim license in the meantime, but my apartment only has one bedroom—that’s the big issue here. The state can overlook a lot of things during an emergency placement, but you’ve gotta have a place to sleep, and it can’t be my couch.”

“So—so what are you gonna do?” A faint, hopeful look creeps into Max’s eyes—slowly, as though it’s afraid it’s going to be crushed at any moment.

“My lease is up soon, so I’ll move someplace with more room. After that, they might— _ might— _ consider placing you with me while I work on getting my license. I can’t guarantee anything, though. They may not want to place you with me until I’m fully licensed. You might have to stay with someone else for a few months, but I  _ promise  _ you I’ll do everything I can to get you placed with me as soon as possible. Okay?”

Max looks up at him, his lower lip wobbling. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks, and David can’t help it—he reaches forward, mindful of Max’s injured arm, and hugs him. Max’s good arm comes up to cling to him, his face burying itself against David’s shoulder as his tiny body shakes with fear and exhaustion and  _ relief. _ He nods adamantly against David, fingers curling tightly into the back of his t-shirt—but their hug is cut short by the wail of sirens as emergency services close in on their position. 

Max pulls back hurriedly, wiping his face. “If you tell anyone about that—” he starts, his voice choked.

“You’ll seriously murder me, I know,” David says, inclining his head and smiling. 

An ambulance slams to a stop in the parking lot, and a pair of EMTs head in their direction. Max huddles in on himself, watching their approach uncertainly. When the first EMT reaches them, she crouches beside him and, to David’s relief, offers them both a kind smile. The other EMT mercifully keeps their distance. 

“Hey, kiddo,” the first EMT says. “What seems to be the problem?”

Max glances at David in an uncharacteristic display of insecurity, so David nods encouragingly. “My arm,” Max begins hesitantly. “I think it’s broken.”

“Okay. We’ll get that fixed up for you as soon as we can, don’t you worry. Can you walk back with me to the ambulance?” the EMT asks. 

Max nods, beginning to carefully pick himself up. David hovers behind him, hands out and ready to catch him if he falls—but he doesn’t. He stands on his own, albeit shakily. The EMT begins to lead him back towards the ambulance, and he casts a nervous glance back at David. 

“Wait, can he come with me?” Max asks.

“No, sweetheart, I’m sorry. He’ll need to stay and talk to the police.”

Terror—undoubtedly at being hurt, at being alone, at being left in the care of strangers after such a traumatic night—flashes quickly through Max’s eyes. David’s heart aches.

“What about his mother?” David asks. “Can she go with him? He doesn’t need to be alone.”

“No,” the EMT says sympathetically. “I’m afraid not, since she’s also involved in the police case. But we’ll take good care of you, okay, honey? You have nothing to be afraid of.”

David meets Max’s eyes one last time, although it tears at him to let anyone take Max away while he’s this hurt and scared. “It’s okay, Max,” he says, trying to imbue his voice with a confidence he doesn’t really feel. (Fortunately, that’s something he’s had a lot of practice doing.) “You’ll be fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

With one last miserable look over his shoulder, Max allows the EMT to lead him into the ambulance. As soon as the doors shut behind him, David whirls around and marches himself to the nearest unoccupied police officer.

“I,” he says, “would like to tell you exactly what happened, Mr. Officer, sir.”

* * *

The EMT instructs Max to take a seat on the stretcher in the back of the ambulance. He does so, keeping his arm held carefully against his chest. It hurts fiercely—a low, sharp pain that jolts up in intensity every time he jostles his forearm. The first EMT takes a seat in the chair beside him and introduces herself as Darlene, while her partner introduces himself as Jack. 

“So what’s your name, little mister?” Jack asks as he climbs into the driver’s seat of the ambulance. 

“It’s Max.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Max,” Jack says. “You just hang tight. We’ll have you fixed up and feeling better in a jiffy.”

“We sure will. Do you mind showing me where your arm hurts, Max?” Darlene asks.

Max gestures to the middle of his forearm. 

“I’d like to get a look at it, if you don’t mind. Do you think you can get your hoodie off, or do you want me to cut it?”

Max looks at her, horrified—those are both fucking terrible options! “Uh, neither?”

“We’ve gotta be able to see it, kiddo. We can do it here or wait until you get to the hospital, but that hoodie’s gotta come off.”

“Can I just roll the sleeve up?”

“Afraid not. The doctors will need clear access for your x-ray, and you’re gonna need a cast, more than likely.”

Max’s eyes drop to his lap. God fucking damn it. He loves his stupid hoodie—he doesn’t want to see it cut into worthless slivers, but he also doesn’t think he can pull it over his head without passing out from blinding agony. He bites his lip. Oh, fuck it. Who cares, right? It’s just a dumb hoodie. He’s being a giant baby—he shouldn’t be that attached to a scrap of blue cloth. 

“Fine,” he says, and he hates himself for the way his eyes sting as he says it. “Just cut it.”

Darlene gently cuts his hoodie down the middle, then down the right arm. She folds it away from his injured arm, then pulls the intact sleeve off of his left arm and sets the tattered hoodie aside. Max refuses to look at it. Instead, he rivets his eyes to his injured arm. No bone protrudes through the skin, but there’s a distinctly suspicious lump near the middle of his forearm, and he’s fairly certain arms shouldn’t ever bend the way his is currently bending. He feels sick. 

“Alright, looks like we have a closed displaced fracture of both the radius and ulna,” Darlene calls up to Jack, jotting something down on a piece of paper. “They’ll be able to fix that up at the hospital, don’t worry. Does anywhere else hurt? I hear you took quite the tumble.”

“Um—my head does, a little.” 

“I’m gonna take a quick look just to make sure your head isn’t bleeding, then, okay?” When he nods, she stands up and begins to sift gently through his hair. He flinches as her fingers cross a tender spot near the side of his head, and she makes a sympathetic noise and draws back. “Looks like you’ve got a nasty bump there, but there’s no bleeding. Now I’m going to look at your eyes with this little light. Try to keep them open for me.”

Darlene unhooks her penlight from the collar of her shirt, bending down in front of him. She flashes the light across his pupils and he winces, cringing back at the sudden sting. 

“Pupillary reflex is intact, but pupils are unequal,” Darlene reports to Jack as the ambulance rushes ahead. Rain begins to patter down above them, hammering against the windshield. “Now I need you to follow my finger with your eyes.”

Max tries his best, biting his lip and ignoring the deep ache behind his eyes as he follows her movements—up, down, diagonal, to each side.

“Nystagmus is present,” Darlene decides once she’s finished, reaching for her papers again. “And how old are you, Max, buddy?”

“I’m ten.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“October 25th.”

“Awesome. Sit tight for just a second—I’m gonna radio ahead and let the doctors know what to expect.” Darlene reaches for the radio near the side of the ambulance, beginning to inform the emergency room of Max’s details as they get closer. 

Max stares anywhere that _isn’t_ his fucked-up arm, chewing his bottom lip. He hates this. He really, _really_ hates this. Was he...wrong? Should he really have tried to leave Mama and Papa behind? All it’s caused him (and his family, and _David)_ so far has been pain and trouble. What if he messed up? But—no. Mama thought he was right. David thought he was right. Maybe it’s hard right now, but it’s going to get better.

It  _ has  _ to get better, doesn’t it?

“Does anywhere else hurt, Max?” Darlene asks as they pull into the emergency room drive. “Anywhere at all?”

Max starts to shake his head, then hesitates. David had told him to be honest, if he wanted to get out of this situation, but shame scorches his cheeks at the thought. What kind of dumbass lets his father beat him without fighting back? What kind of kid is bad enough that his father even  _ wants  _ to beat him? He doesn’t want to admit that shit to anyone else if he can help it. He doesn’t want anyone cracking open the vulnerable shell he’s built around those memories (they belong to  _ him,  _ not the world). He doesn’t want anyone to poke and prod at those humiliating injuries. Besides, his wounds from the belt aren’t  _ that  _ bad. They’re bruises, at most, and a few unfortunate scraps and cuts. He’s just being a fucking pussy. 

But…

But Max has already come this far. There’s no way he can back out now. His injuries are going to be discovered one way or another, especially now that the police and CPS are involved. If he’s going to do this, he’s got to do it all the way, no matter how disgusting and ashamed it makes him feel.  _ Fuck  _ feelings, right?

“Yeah, actually,” he says, his hands trembling. “My, um—my back hurts, and my shoulders, and my chest.”

The concern in Darlene’s face grows exponentially, but before she has a chance to question him, the back doors of the ambulance fly open. Darlene helps to wheel him out of the ambulance on his stretcher, talking rapidly to the emergency room personnel as they roll him inside of the hospital. The fluorescent lights overhead blind Max, and he squeezes his eyes shut and misses a few precious seconds. When he opens his eyes again, Darlene has vanished, and he’s surrounded by strangers.

His heart begins to thunder in his chest again.

He’s never been to the hospital, let alone the emergency room, before. To be injured and alone and swarmed by loud, harried adults is a terrible thing. He hugs his bad arm a little tighter, hunching his shoulders. His eyes dart frantically from place to place as he’s pushed into a smaller room. Nurses buzz around him, moving him onto a cot, wrapping a blood pressure cuff snugly around his good arm and snapping a pulse-ox meter onto his finger. Outside of the room, medical staff dart back and forth, their arms full of equipment and papers. The ambulance radio crackles and beeps at the nurse’s station, and somewhere down the hallway Max can hear a man coughing what sounds like an entire lung out of his body.

It is absolutely, hideously overwhelming.

An elderly, dark-skinned woman suddenly whisks into the room and pulls a thin blue curtain across the doorway. It doesn’t block out the noise, but it does cut off Max’s view of the emergency room, and he feels a sliver more in control. He tears his eyes away from the curtain and locks them on the woman’s face as she begins to speak.

“Hey there, Max,” the woman says. “How are we doing today?”

“Heart rate is up at one-twenty, doctor,” one of the nurses says, fussing with Max’s vitals monitor. “Respiration rate is thirty.”

“That’s okay. Let’s just calm down. Forget the IV for now—I think Max needs a few minutes. You two go ahead and speak with the police, let them know Max got here safely,” the elderly woman says. The nurses slip out of the room, and Max finally,  _ finally  _ has a chance to orientate himself. The urgent beeping on the vitals monitor gradually begins to slow. “There you go, kiddo, that’s it. Just take a few deep breaths. My name is Dr. Browne, and I’m going to take good care of you. Okay?”

Max nods jerkily, pulling a deep breath in through his nose and releasing it through his mouth. He does it again, and again, and the harried beeps on the vitals monitor continue to slow. Dr. Browne keeps a close eye on the numbers as she continues to speak to him. 

“I know you must be scared,” she says. “This is a frightening situation, and I’m sorry your family can’t be here with you—but you’re being very brave right now. We’re going to get you fixed up as soon as we can so you can go down to the pediatric ward and eat some ice cream. Does that sound good?”

“It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than ice cream to make this day good.”

Dr. Browne laughs, and that lessens the pressure on Max’s chest some. “I suppose that’s true. Maybe I can get you set up with some stickers and a teddy bear.”

“Oh, nuh-uh. I’m not a fucking baby.”

“Well, what  _ would  _ make this day better?”

Max thinks about it, his mouth twisting sardonically. “Mm—an Xbox or a Playstation might do the trick. Maybe.”

“I’ll pass it along.” Dr. Browne winks at him, standing up and reading for a clipboard. “Now, Max, I hear you’ve got a nice break in your right arm, and a concussion to boot. But what’s this I hear about your back and chest? Would you mind if I cut your shirt off so I can take a look?”

Max swallows hard, then nods. Dr. Browne carefully cuts his shirt off, setting the scraps aside before glancing at his chest and back. She doesn’t react outwardly, but he hears her breath hitch when she sees the injuries. He curls his shoulders in, hugging himself more tightly and looking miserably at his sneakers. 

“Okay, sweetheart,” she says, pulling a white sheet from one of the cabinets and draping it around his shoulders so he can huddle in it. “You’ve got some nasty bruises. We’re gonna get you down to x-ray as soon as we can, but I imagine you want something for the pain, first. Any allergies that you know of?”

Max shakes his head. 

“Awesome. I’m going to send one of the nurses back in to get you set up with an IV and some pain meds so you can start feeling better. Do you have any questions for me?”

He glances back up at her. “If somebody called David gets here, can he come see me?”

“I don’t know. Cases with police involvement can be tricky, but I’ll try to find out for you—and if he is allowed to see you, I’ll send him back as soon as I can.”

“Okay. Uh.” He twists the sheets in his fingers. “Thanks.”

Dr. Browne flashes him one last smile, then vanishes through the curtain. As promised, a young nurse whisks into the room a few minutes later. 

“Hey, Mr. Max, I’m Liu,” the nurse says. He offers Max a thick brown blanket (which, judging by its wonderful temperature, came straight from a warmer), then rummages through the cabinets. He pulls out a plastic-wrapped needle and wheels an IV stand towards the bed. “I’m gonna give you an IV so we can keep you hydrated and make everything hurt a little less. Would that be okay?”

Max nods, stretching out his good arm and setting it along the cot railing. Liu swabs the crook of his elbow with an alcohol wipe, then wraps a tourniquet around his upper arm, just below the blood pressure cuff. When Liu tells him to, Max curls his hand into a fist a few times, watching with morbid fascination as the veins in his elbow begin to bulge. Then Liu unwraps the needle, and Max gulps and looks away. Holy fuck, he hates needles. He’s beginning to think this is actually the worst day ever, and he’s had a  _ lot of terrible days. _

“Alright, quick pinch,” Liu warns, and then the needle slides beneath his skin. To his credit, Liu gets the needle into his vein within a few seconds, then pushes in the catheter tubing and removes the needle. He sits back, tapes the tubing to Max’s skin and unfastens the tourniquet, then claps his hands together. “Aaand we’re done! You did great, Max.”

“Ugh,” Max decides.

“I know, I know. It’s no fun.” Liu stands, swapping out his gloves and reaching for another syringe. “This is a little bit of hydrocodone and acetaminophen. It’ll knock your pain out pretty quickly and help with inflammation, too. I’m gonna put them into your IV bag, so it should start working in a few minutes.”

Once Max has been set up with pain medication, Liu attaches several electrodes to his chest and runs them back to the vitals machine. Then he hands Max a tiny handheld switch, gesturing to the button on top. “This is your call button,” he explains. “Press it if you need absolutely anything. We’re getting a room for you in x-ray right now, so it shouldn’t be long. There’s just one last thing, and then I’ll leave you alone, okay? I’m going to put an emergency splint on that arm so you don’t move it around too much.”

Liu applies the splint gently, but moving his arm still has Max’s eyes watering at the sting. He blinks furiously, taking a shuddery breath as Liu draws back. The splint runs from Max’s wrist to above his elbow, holding his arm carefully in place. After that, Liu does as he’d promised and leaves Max alone. Max sags back against the cot with an exhausted exhale, allowing his eyes to shut. Fucking hell, he’s tired. What time is it, anyway? He cracks an eye open, but there’s no clock in the room, so he wearily slides it shut again. Whatever. He doubts he’ll be getting to sleep anytime soon.

As it turns out, he’s very wrong. 

When he wakes up, it’s to Liu shaking his shoulder gently. “Max, come on, buddy. It’s time for your x-ray, and then you can go back to sleep.”

“What?” he asks—or tries to ask, anyway. It comes out an incomprehensible slur. Shit, he’s so tired, and now that nothing hurts he feels warm and relaxed and so…sleepy...

“Max, you gotta get up, bud.” Liu jostles him gently again, and Max pries his sticky eyelids open. “Just for a few minutes. Let’s get you into a gown.”

Max staggers out of the cot, shucking off his jeans and easing into a hospital gown with Liu’s help. He stumbles after Liu into the x-ray room, and the x-ray technicians work quickly. They x-ray his arm first, then x-ray his skull and torso. His bruises, he imagines, made Dr. Browne more worried than she let on. Once the x-rays are finished, Liu helps him back onto his cot, and he immediately resumes drowsing as he’s wheeled back to the ER.

Unfortunately, his drowsing doesn’t last long. Dr. Browne wakes him a couple of hours later, patting his shoulder gently. He groans and raises his hands to rub his eyes, but stops short when a jolt of pain lashes through his right arm. “What?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Dr. Browne assures him. “Your x-rays actually look really good. You don’t have broken bones anywhere but your arm. Unfortunately, we are going to need to do surgery to realign your radius and ulna. We’ll put a rod in so the bones stay aligned while they’re healing, but we’ll remove the rod once everything is stable. After the swelling goes down we’ll put your arm in a cast.”

“Surgery?” Max’s brow furrows, worry beginning to curl through his chest again. “When?”

“First thing in the morning. It’s four AM now, so you can sleep for another hour, but we’re going to start prepping you around five. Dr. Thorton will be doing your surgery—she’s the best pediatric surgeon we’ve got, so you have nothing to be worried about. She’s going to use general anesthesia, so you’ll sleep through the whole thing and wake up in the recovery room. It’ll be painless.”

“Okay,” Max says quietly, as though he actually has a choice in the matter. He fiddles with the blanket in his lap. “Has anyone come to see me?”

Dr. Browne pulls up one of the chairs, sitting beside him. She reaches out to take his hand, and he lets her. It reminds him of his mama, and his throat tightens painfully. “David came by about an hour ago,” she says. “Unfortunately, we weren’t able to let you see him. The police want your testimony before you speak with anyone else, so your story won’t be influenced. I’m sorry.”

Max shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“It really isn’t. A child should never have to go through this sort of thing, especially alone.” Dr. Browne squeezes his hand. “I know it isn’t the same, but we’re all here for you. The medical staff will do everything we can to make you feel safe while you’re here.”

“...even that Playstation?”

A grin flickers across Dr. Browne’s face. “Even that Playstation, Max. Now, get some rest. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

Max settles back into his cot, although it’s hard to get comfortable with so many attachments. Eventually, however, the exhaustion and pain medication do their tricks, and Max lapses into sleep again. As promised, Dr. Browne wakes him an hour later. Dr. Thorton is with her, and she introduces herself and shakes Max’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says. She explains his surgery to him step by step, and that comforts him, a little. It doesn’t sound  _ terrible.  _ Once she’s explained it, she steps out and lets his anesthesiologist in, instead.

“This,” the anesthesiologist says, holding up a small syringe of clear liquid, “is going to make you very sleepy. I’m going to put it into your IV and give it a few minutes to work. After that, we’ll wheel you down the OR and start some general anesthesia through a mask. We’ll keep you asleep the whole time. Sound good?”

Max nods, watching nervously as she injects the sedative into his IV. He leans his head back against the pillows, taking several deep breaths. Dr. Browne and the anesthesiologist speak quietly above his head, and the lights begin to blur. Christ, that sedative works fast. Black spots begin to dance in his vision, and then he’s gone.

When he wakes up, he feels ridiculously groggy. He cracks his eyes open—the room is dim and quiet, save for the slow beeping of his heart rate on the vitals monitor. He shuts his eyes again, and he bobs in and out of unconsciousness for another hour. When he finally manages to stay awake for more than a few minutes, he realizes he’s nauseous, and his throat feels sore. Ugh.

After a minute of wallowing in self-pity, Max lifts his head to look at his arm. A sturdy brace runs from elbow to wrist, holding his arm straight. The ominous lump that had been there before has vanished. A thin line of staples runs across the side of his forearm, holding his skin together. He touches his arm gently, then more firmly, and he can feel the metal rod locking his bones into position. That’s...actually pretty cool. Of course, it hurts, so he stops pressing after a few seconds.

“Hi, Max,” Dr. Thorton says, stepping into his room. He jerks, startled, and looks up at her. She waves at him. “Your surgery went really well. Everything went just the way we planned it. We’re going to leave the rod in for a couple of months while your bones heal, and then you’ll have another small surgery to remove it so your bones can continue growing normally. We’re going to leave that splint on for a few days, so try not to mess with it or move your arm too much. After that, we’ll put you in a cast. Now, I have a  _ very  _ important question for you. Are you ready for this?”

Max’s shoulders tense, and he nods warily at her.

“What color would you like your cast to be?” she asks, grinning.

He blinks, then snorts and lets his shoulders drop again. “Blue,” he decides, thinking of his ruined hoodie. “I want it to be blue.”

“You got it, kiddo.” Dr. Thorton scribbles on her paper, then glances back at him. “How are you feeling?”

“You know, for somebody who was thrown down a flight of stairs less than ten hours ago, I’m doing pretty fucking great.”

Dr. Thorton winces. That...may not have been a great joke. “I’m sorry, Max.”

“Hey, no, it’s fine, forget it. I feel okay.” He looks away, curling his fingers into his blanket. “So what happens next? I just hang out here?”

“We’re going to keep you here for a couple more hours, yes. After that, we’ll move you down to the pediatric ward and get you some breakfast. The police will be along to talk to you sometime today, as will a CPS investigator.”

“Can I see people after that?”

“I couldn’t say. You’ll have to ask the investigator—he’ll know more than I do about all the legal procedures.”

Dr. Thorton leaves him to rest, then, and rest he does. He dozes for another hour, then chews contemplatively on ice chips for a while after that. He’s not allowed to watch TV or read, thanks to his concussion, so he spends quite a bit of time staring out the window. Unfortunately, even the natural light proves to be too much for his bruised brain after a while, and he has to ask the nurses to draw the curtains. His head aches dully, as does his arm, but the pain medications keep it manageable. 

Max is moved from the post-op recovery room to the pediatric ward later that morning. The pediatric ward looks like it was made for toddlers—colorful pictures of dinosaurs and butterflies line the walls, and the personnel wear scrubs in pastel colors and cartoonish designs. His nurse introduces herself as Kim, and she brings him a breakfast of scrambled eggs, cherry jello, and orange juice. He eats rather aimlessly—he isn’t particularly hungry, even though the nausea from the anesthesia has finally faded. When he’s finished picking at his food, Kim brings him two ice packs—one to settle over his splint and one to set on his head—and several more tedious hours pass. 

Shortly before lunchtime, thank  _ fucking  _ god, there’s a blip of excitement when Kim escorts a pair of police officers into his room. The first police officer shakes Max’s hand and says, “I’m Mrs. Lee. It’s a pleasure to meet you, although I wish it were under better circumstances. You’re Max Deshpande, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And I’m Ms. McCall,” the second police officer says, shaking his hand next. “Do you mind if we stay and ask you a few questions?”

Max gestures magnanimously to the bright red chairs beside his bed. “I’m pretty sure that’s a rhetorical question, but sure.”

“So,” Mrs. Lee says, taking a seat and pulling out her notepad, as well as an audio recorder. She sets the recorder on his bedside table. “Here’s how this is going to work. We’re going to record our questions and your answers. Everything you say may be presented in a court of law. You don’t have to answer any questions you don’t want to. Are you alright with that?”

Max nods. 

“I’ll need you to respond verbally to the questions.”

“Oh, uh—yes, yeah, it’s fine.”

“Good. Well, to start, I hear you had quite the eventful night,” Mrs. Lee says. “Can you tell us exactly what happened to you yesterday evening up until your arrival at the hospital last night?”

“My mom and I went to the store and then came home and had dinner. Mama fell asleep, so I moved her needles to the kitchen table because I didn’t want her to roll over and hurt herself on them.”

“You were aware your mother was in possession of needles for illegal drug use?”

“Yeah.”

“Does she usually have the needles out while you’re around?”

“I mean, not all the time. She usually puts them away, but if she falls asleep she’ll leave them out for a few hours.” Max hesitates, picking at his nails. “Is this going to get her into trouble?”

“Possibly,” Mrs. Lee admits, “but we need to hear the truth. You aren’t betraying her by telling us this—you may, in fact, be helping her. You’re aware that your mother is a drug addict?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And how long has she been using drugs around you?”

“As long as I can remember.”

“What kinds of drugs does she use?”

“Anything and everything. Pot, crack, opioids, ecstasy, whatever.”

“Has she ever given you drugs?”

Max shakes his head, then remembers the audio recording and says, “No.”

“Has she ever left her drugs out where you had access to them?”

“Sometimes. I mean, most of the time, I guess. She puts them in cabinets, but it’s not like I can’t climb up and get them. I’m not two anymore.”

“Did you ever try them?”

Max’s eyes dart away. “...I took some kind of pill once, but I got so sick I never tried again.”

A grim look flickers across Mrs. Lee’s face, but she nods and jots something down. “And what did your mother do, when she found out you’d been into her drugs?”

“I mean, she wasn’t happy. She told me not to do it again.”

“Did she lock her drugs up somewhere you couldn’t reach them?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hurt yourself on any other drug paraphernalia?” 

Max’s mouth twists, and he scratches his right shoulder. “I tripped and fell on her needles, once.”

“What was your mother’s reaction to that?”

“She got really scared. She went and got tested for a whole bunch of diseases to make sure I wouldn’t have them.”

“And what were the results of those tests?”

“She was healthy, so she assumed I was fine. That was a few years ago.”

“How did your mother afford her drugs?”

“Um—she used Papa’s money, most of the time.”

“Did your papa also use drugs?”

“Not like she did.”

Mrs. Lee nods, sitting back in her chair. Ms. McCall takes over next, asking, “So, you get home and you put your mother’s needles on the table. What happens next?”

“My papa got home, and he got mad because I was touching her stuff. He told me not to, and I bitched at him,” Max says, hugging his bad arm again. “I made him mad on purpose.”

“And how did he react to that?”

“He, uh. I mean, he didn’t like it, no shit. He hit me with his belt.”

“Where did he hit you?”

“My back, mostly.”

“How many times did he hit you?”

“I—fuck, I dunno. I wasn’t exactly keeping count at that point.”

“Does he often hit you with his belt when he’s angry?”

“Yeah. Usually he doesn’t hit so hard, but he’s worse when he’s drunk.”

“Was he drunk last night?”

“...no.”

“Max, do you mind if we look at where your father hit you?” Ms. McCall asks. Max’s mouth twists unhappily. “We’d like to take photos as court evidence. No one will see them but the legal authorities, I promise.”

Max squirms uncomfortably, staring at his lap.

“Dr. Browne said the bruising was extensive,” Mrs. Lee adds, in a gentle voice. “We don’t want to send you back to your father. If we show the court exactly what he’s done to you, there’s no way that will happen. Besides, he needs to be held accountable for his actions. We’ll be fast, and you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Max takes a deep breath, then nods and climbs out of his cot. Ms. McCall pulls the curtain across his room’s windows, double-checking the lock on the door. When she nods at him, he pulls off his hospital gown. Their eyes widen with horror when they see his chest and back—the bruises, he notices, have finally darkened into their true color. Thick purple welts cover him from his collar bones to his upper thighs. Several raw red scrapes cover his shoulders and sides. He averts his eyes from theirs, shame burning through him. That shame only grows as they take their pictures, and he resists the urge to curl in on himself and never move again.

“And under your boxers?” Mrs. Lee asks quietly. “Did he hit you there?”

Max shrugs.

“Max, we need to know. Does your father ever touch you there?”

“Not—like  _ that.” _

“Like what?”

“Like he wants to fuck me.” Holy  _ fuck,  _ this conversation makes him want to die. “Can I get dressed now or do I have to be naked for the rest of this humiliating interrogation?”

When they give him the okay, Max hurriedly yanks his hospital gown back on and climbs back into his cot. He pulls his blanket up around him, looking anywhere but the officers as they continue their questioning. 

“Did your father hit you there? Not sexually, but as punishment?” Mrs. Lee asks softly.

“Sometimes,” Max says bitterly. “He had bad aim with the belt.”

“Did anyone besides him ever touch you there for  _ any  _ reason?”

“I mean shit, yeah. My mama had to change my diapers when I was a baby, didn’t she?”

“Besides that,” Mrs. Lee amends. 

“No.”

“Okay. That’s good, Max. Now, can you tell us what happened after your father hit you?” Mrs. Lee says. “What happened with David?”

Max slumps back against his cot, glaring at the ceiling. His head throbs. “I got mad at my papa, so I called David and I asked him to come get me. He didn’t want to because that’s kidnapping and shit, but my mama said it was alright if I left with him, so it  _ wasn’t  _ kidnapping. He was just doing what I asked him to.”

“And how do you know David?”

“He was my camp counselor over the summer.”

“You trusted him to come and pick you up and keep you safe until he could get you to the authorities?”

“Something like that, yeah. David’s—he’s a good guy. Like a  _ stupidly  _ good guy. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, so I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.”

“And what happened after David got there?”

“I don’t know. I told him to sneak in, but then I heard shouting, because I guess my papa found him somehow. Papa got into an argument with him and Mama, and he hit Mama. Then David hit him. Then Papa tried to choke David, so I bit him, and I guess he didn’t like that very much because he threw me down the stairs.”

“Your father intentionally threw you down the stairs?”

“Yeah. He grabbed my jacket, walked over to the stairs, and threw me—hence the broken arm and concussion.”

The officers scribble furiously on their notepads for a moment. 

“So,” Max says, “now that I’ve told you all that, can I see other people? Not that social isolation isn’t totally fun or anything.”

“Other people?” Ms. McCall asks.

“Yeah, like David, or my mama.”

“Your parents are currently being detained,” Ms. McCall explains carefully. “They won’t be going anywhere until the preliminary hearing.”

Max’s eyes widen. “They’ve been arrested? Both of them?”

“Yes.”

“But my mama didn’t do anything.”

“She was in possession of quite a bit of illegal drug paraphernalia,” Ms. McCall says. “That alone is grounds for arrest. Add in suspected child neglect and abuse, and she won’t be going anywhere for a while. Your father, meanwhile, has also been arrested on drug, assault, and child abuses charges.”

“And—and David?”

Ms. McCall shakes her head. “No charges are currently being held against him. Your father may press for assault charges, but he isn’t pressing at the moment.”

“So he can come see me?”

“After the CPS investigator talks to you, yes,” Ms. McCall says, and Max lights up—it’s stupid to be so happy about seeing other people, but he’s getting pretty damn lonely locked in here with a bunch of strangers. The officers stay a while longer, asking him a few more questions, before taking their leave. 

Max hurriedly eats lunch, after that—blue raspberry jello and meatloaf, this time. His head aches fiercely, and he’s tempted to take a brief nap, but the CPS investigator arrives before he can. She asks him many of the same questions the officers did, and Max answers her quickly and thoroughly (it’s easier, now that he’s already done it once). She takes her own pictures of his injuries, then leaves him with her well-wishes and says his social worker will be by that evening.

“When David shows up again,” Max tells Kim when she arrives with dinner, “he’s allowed to visit me now.”

“I know. I’m very happy for you,” she says, setting down a tray with chicken noodle soup and bread rolls. “It’s been pretty lonely in here.”

“Do you know when he’ll come?”

“I don’t, Max, I’m sorry.”

“Does he know he can come see me? Did the police tell him?”

“I don’t know that either, kiddo—but I’ll keep an eye out for him, promise.”

Max’s shoulders slump. He pokes at his soup for a while, then forces himself to down half of it. It sits heavily in his stomach. He sets his tray on his bedside table, then curls up and closes his eyes and tries to ignore the growing pain in his skull. For a blissful couple of hours, darkness keeps him company. 

When he blinks his eyes open again, his headache has eased some and the light outside has dimmed into a soft red sunset. He yawns widely enough to crack his jaw, stretching leisurely against the pillows. Good food, a nice sunset, air conditioning, pain medication, clean blankets—what more could he want? Besides, you know, wifi and some company.

“Max?”

Max freezes, his eyes widening. He whips his head to the side—a little  _ too  _ quickly, if the sudden dagger of pain behind his eyes is anything to go by—and sees David sitting in one of the plastic chairs next to his bed. David leans forward and smiles warmly at him, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and Max is so damn relieved he could cry. He won’t, of course, because that would be stupid. His eyes are only stinging because he’s concussed and squinting into the sunlight. That’s all, that’s  _ it. _

“Man,” Max says (and if his voice is wobbly it’s just because he’s waking up), “you look like shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aND we're on the road to recovery !!! also please note: the way i write the foster care system in this fic is based primarily off of my own foster siblings' experiences a few years ago. the system varies from state to state, and it's undoubtedly changed in the past few years, so max's experience may not be every foster kid's experience--it is, however, as accurate as i can make it given the knowledge i (and the internet) currently have! :D
> 
> also yes. yes dr. browne in this chapter is based off of dr. browne from _the good doctor_ bc she's my favorite <333


	4. i had a really bad night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: discussions of child abuse and neglect, mentions of drug abuse, brief recreational alcohol use, descriptions of injuries and medical procedures

In Max’s defense, David  _ does  _ look like shit. His hair is mussed and greasy, the whites of his eyes are laced through with popped blood vessels, and he’s still clad in the same clothes he wore yesterday. Worst of all, however, are the dark purple bruises wrapping around his throat. Guilt seizes in Max’s chest—that’s all because of  _ him. _

“Hey, kiddo,” David says, a teasing sparkle in his eyes. He sounds like he’s swallowed a chainsaw. “Watch the language.”

Max ignores that little remark, as per usual. He scrambles to sit up, his eyes wide and his heart crashing against his the backs of his ribs. “Did you even get somebody to look at your neck?” he demands.

David brushes his fingers across his throat. “It’s just a nasty bruise, don’t worry. I’ll heal right up!”

“No, seriously, you should get somebody to look at it.”

“Now, I know it might look bad, but—”

“After my dad choked my mom, she got sick. Like  _ really  _ sick. She had migraines for weeks and she started seeing things that weren’t there because of the brain damage and she had a miscarriage which, you know, I’m guessing is not a thing you’re going to be having but—”

Horror flashes through David’s eyes, his face paling. “Max, I didn’t know. I—”

“It’s fine, it’s not like I give a shit. Just don’t be a giant dumbass. Have somebody make sure you’re not going to, like, die or something, because that would be super inconvenient.” 

“I’ll have someone look at it as soon as I leave here,” David assures him. “Deal?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Max says, relief washing over him. If David died because of him, he doesn’t know what he’d do—other than have a complete mental breakdown, that is. “So where have you been all day? What happened?”

“I was at the police station most of the morning, and then I went to visit with the DSS. Oh, and I met your social worker! She seems lovely. She said she’d be here before dinner.”

“Really? What did she say? Are you gonna be able to get a license?”

“We’re not quite ready to discuss that, but I did inform her of my intentions, yes,” David says. “She isn’t making any decisions yet. We have a lot of hoops to jump through before we get there, but don’t worry about that stuff right now. Just focus on getting better. What did the doctors say about your arm?”

“Believe it or not, it’s still broken. I had surgery and they put a rod in,” Max says, lifting his right arm gingerly from its throne of pillows to show David. 

“Wow, would you look at that! You’re gonna have a cool scar, huh?”

Max snorts. “Yeah. So cool. Anyway, they’ll have to reopen it in a couple of months to take the rod back out.”

“Are you going to have a cast?”

“Uh-huh. They have to let the swelling go down first, and then they’ll put it on.”

“Well, that’ll be fun! You can have everyone sign it,” David says. “You know, I hear you’re quite the popular guy around here.”

“Thanks. It’s the sob story. Everybody wants to dote on the beaten kid with no visitors.”

“C’mon, I’m sure it’s more than that. You’re a cool guy, Max. Ms. Kim says you’ve been very polite to her.”

“She controls my pain meds; of  _ course  _ I’m polite to her, David.”

“How is your pain? Do you hurt very much?”

“I’m fine.”

“If you are in pain, you know you need to tell the nurses. They can’t help you unless you—”

“I  _ know.  _ Jeez, I didn’t think you were going to show up just to lecture me.”

David’s eyes flicker away. “Sorry. I don’t mean to.”

Max’s shoulders slump. Somehow, picking at David doesn’t feel like very much fun, right now. It must be something to do with how utterly pathetic David looks, bedraggled and bruised and exhausted. So, rather than push the issue, Max sighs and says, “No, it’s fine. You’re right, I guess.”

David’s eyes lift again, sparkling.

“Oh,  _ god,  _ don’t look at me that way. You’re gross.” He flaps his hand at David, whose grin only grows larger.  _ “Stop it.  _ I cannot handle this level of positivity right now.”

“Okay, okay.” David laughs, sitting back in his chair. A companionable silence passes between them for a moment, and then David asks, “Can I get you anything? A snack? A toy from the gift shop? It looks kinda boring in here.”

“Well, I can’t do much, on account of my brain got slammed so hard against my skull it decided to fuck up all my senses,” Max says. David’s face falls. “But, uh—do you know where my backpack is? I had it all packed in my bedroom.”

“If it was at your house, then I doubt it’s gone anywhere. Your social worker will probably bring it by soon.”

“Okay. In that case, I really don’t need anything else.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I am.” Max waves a hand dismissively at him, and David lets the matter drop. “So what’s your plan after this? Are you going back home?”

“Well, I’ll need to, soon. I don’t really, uh, have anywhere to sleep here, so I’ll probably drive back tonight,” David says. He doesn’t look thrilled with the idea. “I’m sorry. I wish I could stay longer.”

“No, it’s okay.” Max shrugs. It doesn’t really feel okay. “You’ve gotta start looking for a new apartment, anyway.”

“By golly, that’s right, I do! That’ll be tons of fun. I just love looking at the woodworking in different houses.” David clasps his hands in front of him, sighing wistfully.

“God, of course you do,” Max mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Did you talk to Gwen?”

“No, not yet. How come?”

“I dunno. She’s just, like, all of your common sense. I figured you would have told her something by now.”

“I’ll probably go see her on my way back to Sleepy Peak,” David admits. “Do you mind if I tell her what’s going on?”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“I’d offer to let you talk to her, but, uh, she’s probably at work right now, and I guess you don’t have your own phone to call her later.”

“Not allowed to use one right now, anyway. Too much screentime,” Max says, gesturing to his head again. “Concussed and all that. Fuckin’ bullshit.”

“We’ll both try to visit you as soon as we can—next weekend, hopefully.”

“Will you be allowed to?”

“I don’t see why not, but I suppose that depends on the house rules wherever you are. I have your social worker’s number, so I’ll do everything I can to find you after you leave the hospital.”

“Cool.” Max glances down at his blanket, fiddling with a loose blue thread. “It’s...weird, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Everything, I guess.”

“Things are a little weird right now, yes—but it’s all going to turn out okay, you’ll see.”

“You don’t know that.”

David reaches out, gently setting a hand on Max’s shoulder. Max glances over at him, frowning. (Frowning, he quickly realizes, makes his head hurt worse.)

“No, I don’t know that for sure, but I promise you I’m going to do everything I can to make it true,” David says. There’s a familiar, stubborn glint in his eyes that Max knows from experience won’t be easily dissuaded. “You too, Max. Don’t give up.”

Max hesitates, glancing away—then he jerks his chin down in a brief nod.

“That’s my boy,” David says, grinning victoriously.

Max shrugs his hand off, scoffing. “Don’t fuckin’ push it, old man.”

A sudden knock on the door interrupts them. When they glance over, a tall woman stands in the doorway. Her black suit looks immaculately pressed, and the briefcase she carries is slim and dark and filled, no doubt, with papers detailing the lowest moments of Max’s life. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she says. “My name is Mrs. Lexus Casper. I’m Max’s social worker.”

“Hey,” Max says.

“Hi there, Mrs. Casper!” David says, jumping up to shake her hand. “It’s so nice to see you again. I hope lunch with your grandchildren went well.”

A smile flickers across Mrs. Casper’s face. “It did, thank you. As nice as it is to see you, however, I’m afraid I’ll need to speak to Max alone.”

“I completely understand. Let me just say goodbye.” David darts back to Max’s side, crouching next to his cot. 

Sudden fear curls in Max’s chest at the thought of David leaving—what if he never comes back? What if he’s lying and he doesn’t really want to foster Max? Who  _ would  _ really want Max, after all? What if they never see each other again and Max lives out his life bouncing from family to family? What if—

“I don’t want you to leave,” Max says, swallowing hard. He tries to sound calm, but his vitals monitor gives him away, beeping more urgently in time with his heart.

“Max…”

“Don’t go,” Max orders, reaching out to tangle the fingers of his good hand into David’s shirt. “You can’t go.”

David sets his hand over Max’s. “I’ll be back, I promise. You don’t have to be scared.”

“I’m not scared, fuck you! I just—” He twists his fingers, glaring at the bruises on David’s neck. “I just don’t want you to leave.”

Max’s mouth feels dry at the thought, cold sweat sticking to the nape of his neck. His fingers shake. His eyes sting, but he furiously blinks back the threat of tears and gulps in several deep breaths. Holy fuck, he’s acting like such a little bitch—but he  _ really doesn’t want David to go.  _ He’s so sick of being alone around all of these strangers in this big, unfamiliar place. He’s so tired of answering questions and asking questions and never knowing what’s going to happen next or where he’ll go. 

If this is what being brave is, he’s already so  _ tired  _ of it.

David leans forward, hugging Max. Max doesn’t hug back, not with Mrs. Casper watching, but he doesn’t immediately shove David away, either. His breath hitches in misery, and he drops his forehead to rest against David’s shoulder and swallows rapidly to keep himself from sobbing. 

“I know it’s not fair,” David says, leaning their heads together. “I know this sucks, and I know you’re tired and scared and you don’t feel good—but Mrs. Casper is going to take very good care of you while I’m gone. She won’t let anyone hurt you, and she’ll make sure you go somewhere safe until I can bring you home.”

“I don’t want to go with anyone else,” Max whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“I know, but—but think of it like camp, okay? Even though you hated it at first, it wasn’t so bad, was it? You were safe, and taken care of, and you even made friends. This is going to be just like camp, only shorter.”

“Well thank fuck for that, at least,” Max croaks. “Small mercies.”

David chuckles. “That’s right. Just pretend wherever you go, it’s camp. Maybe you hate it, and it’s strange and a little scary, but you’re going to be okay and it won’t be as bad as you think. Maybe you’ll even make friends!”

Max takes a deep breath, and David rubs his back briskly before leaning back and settling his hands on Max’s shoulders. “Okay,” Max says, finally. “Fine. But you’d better not forget to visit me at camp like my dumb parents did.”

“I would never, ever forget you.” David squeezes his shoulders, then releases him and straightens up. “Goodbye, Max. I’ll see you next weekend if all goes well. Be good, okay?”

“Bye, David. Get someone to look at your neck before you keel over and die.”

Max watches David go with a sinking, hollow feeling in his stomach. Mrs. Casper closes the door behind David, offering Max a sympathetic look as she sits down in the chair next to his bed. “I’m so sorry you’re in this situation,” she says, first.

“Yeah,” Max says, his voice hollow. He doesn’t have the energy for this. Now that David’s gone, he just wants to lay down and not move for several hours or maybe a lifetime. The future stretches out in front of him, dark and endless and frightening. “So what’s next?”

“There’s a court hearing early tomorrow morning to decide whether your removal from the house was legally warranted,” Mrs. Casper explains, crossing her legs. “Considering both of your parents are currently imprisoned on drug possession charges and we have significant proof of child abuse and neglect, it should be a very quick and straightforward hearing. After that, custody will be granted to the state, and we’ll be in charge of deciding how to take care of you.”

“I assume that means putting me into a foster home.”

“More than likely, yes. I’ve already made arrangements for you with an emergency foster family.” She reaches into her briefcase, pulling out a small folder and handing it to Max. “These are the Carpenters. They’re a very sweet couple, and they look forward to meeting you. They live fifteen minutes south, so you’ll still be able to attend regular hospital visits here with Dr. Thorton to make sure your arm is healing.”

Max opens the folder, rifling absently through the pages. There’s a picture of a couple on the front—an old man and woman, Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter. The pages detail their interests, their hobbies, their address and phone numbers and pictures of their house. It doesn’t look awful (but it’s not where Max wants to be). “How long do I have to stay with them?”

“That depends on several things,” Mrs. Casper admits. “Your parents’ prison sentences, first and foremost. Your mother may not be incarcerated for very long, or at all, but I imagine your father will be imprisoned for quite some time. When your mother is released, I’ll be working closely with her to pursue reunification. Hopefully, eventually, I can do the same work with your father. The state’s priority is always to reunite children with their families. We don’t want you to be in foster care longer than you absolutely have to be.”

Max’s stomach rolls uncomfortably. “...you want to give me back to my parents?”

“If your parents prove capable and responsible enough to raise you, yes,” Mrs. Casper says. “But there are many steps they’ll have to go through before that. If your mother seeks custody of you, she’ll need to attend rehab and stay sober for a minimum of six months. She’ll also be required to attend regular therapy, and she’ll need to provide a stable source of income and shelter. As you can imagine, it’s going to be quite some time before she’s able to do any of that.”

“Does she  _ want _ to do all of that?” Max asks, a flicker of hope in his chest. Does Mama actually give that much of a shit? “To get me back?”

“I haven’t spoken with her yet, so I couldn’t say. I’m sorry.”

Max’s eyes drop in disappointment. “Right. But what you’re saying is I’ll be in foster care for a while?”

“It looks that way.”

“Can I go with David once he gets a bigger house?”

“You know, he asked the very same thing.” Mrs. Casper smiles fondly at him. “He was your camp counselor, wasn’t he? The investigator briefed me on your relationship.”

“Yeah, and he said he wanted to foster me, so can I go with him?”

“You want to go with him?”

Max nods.

“Well, then, I’ll certainly see what we can do. He isn’t a licensed foster parent, but since you have no other kin and he’s very willing to take you, he’s one of our best options. We’ll have to do a federal background check and a home study before we make any decisions, though. That will take a minimum of two weeks.”

Max groans.

“But you’ll be staying with the Carpenters for those two weeks, don’t worry. They’re willing to keep you for up to a month while we sort things out. I’ll be here Monday morning to pick you up and take you to their house. In the meantime, are there any things you’d like me to get from your old house?”

“My backpack. I had everything I wanted to take in it. It’s in my bedroom, beside my bed.”

“I’ll get that picked up for you and bring it with me tomorrow. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Not right now.” His head hurts and he’s much too tired to ask everything he’s wondering. 

“Then I’ll see you Monday, Max. Get some rest.”

And Max is left alone again.

(But later that night, Dr. Browne sneaks into his room and smiles at him and says, “You wanna come down to the kids’ playroom and see the Playstation we have set up?” and he supposes he isn’t completely alone after all.) 

* * *

As soon as Gwen opens the door to her apartment, David breaks down. Her eyes widen when she sees his tears, and she immediately yanks him inside. He bends and presses his face into her shoulder as he begins to blubber, and she pats the back of his head—a little too hard, to tell the truth, but he appreciates her trying—and lets him cling to her.

“Jesus Christ, David,” she says. “What the hell’s got you all worked up?”

“Max called so I went to see him but then his dad got mad at his mom because he thought she was a whore because I was there so he hit her and I—I did a bad thing I hit him back and then he hurt Max and the police showed up and the EMTs took Max away and I couldn’t get to him,  _ they wouldn’t let me see him, they—!” _

“Woah, woah woah woah woah.” Gwen pushes him back, staring up at him as he sniffles. “You’ve gotta slow down. You—”

The second she sees the bruises around her throat, her words grind to a halt. Horror flashes through her eyes, and she reaches up to brush her fingers across the side of his neck. He winces. When she speaks again, her voice shakes.

“David? David what the actual  _ fuck?” _

David wipes his eyes, then his nose, sniffling miserably. “I had a really bad night.”

“Oh, god. Okay.” Gwen touches his cheek, then his shoulder, guiding him to sit on the couch. She snags the box of tissues from her kitchen, bringing them to him. “First things first, blow your nose. You’re gross and snotty.”

David nods in agreement—he’s the grossest and the snottiest—and reaches for a tissue. He blows his nose, and Gwen drapes her purple fleece blanket around his shoulders before reaching for his hand. She squeezes it gently, and he squeezes back. Thank goodness for best friends, for  _ Gwen.  _ He doesn’t know where he’d be without her.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice sounds horrifically ugly—his throat has been sore and raw for the past day, and the nasal swelling from his tears has not improved it at all. 

“Shut up,” Gwen says fiercely. “Don’t you dare be sorry for this. What the hell  _ happened?” _

David takes a deep breath and tries to start again, but his voice cracks and then he’s back to bawling. Gwen groans but hugs him close to her, rubbing soothing circles across his back. He latches onto her, wailing into her shoulder as the memories crash over him again. His throat aches fiercely with every sob, his eyes burning as tears spill down his cheeks and drop from his chin to Gwen’s tank-top. She smells like perfume, like melons and coconuts, and he gulps in deep breaths and tries to ground himself with the familiar scent.

“Shh, David, shh,” Gwen says, smoothing her fingers through his tangled hair. “Hey, come on, it’s okay. Just breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

David tries, but snot clogs his nose and he ends up snorting more than he does anything else. Gwen laughs helplessly at him. 

“Oh, gross. Okay, never mind, don’t do that. In and out through your mouth. Here’s another tissue—blow.”

For several minutes, she lets him cry himself out against her, patting his back and murmuring senseless comfort. He finally manages to calm himself down, taking several deep breaths and slumping into Gwen’s arms. For a time, the two of them stay quiet. Gwen continues to run her fingers through his hair, easing it out of its greasy knots and rubbing soft circles against his scalp. His eyes drift shut for a moment, and he lets himself indulge in her comfort until she finally nudges him to sit up.

“Hey,” she says. “You good?”

He nods wearily, reaching for his ninety-fifth tissue of the day and wiping his face. “Sorry. I got snot on your sweater.”

“What’s new?”

“Heh.” A wobbly smile crosses his face. He grabs his ninety-sixth tissue and dabs at the damp spot on her shoulder until she bats him away. 

“Hey, quit. Will you tell me what happened or are you just gonna start sobbing again?”

“Is both an option?”

“As long as you save the sobbing for last. What  _ happened  _ to you?”

David takes a deep breath, crumpling his tissue in his hand. “Max called me last night.”

“Max?  _ Our  _ Max?”

“Mm-hm. His dad, um. His dad hurts him.”

Gwen’s face darkens, a muscle in her jaw clenching. “Fuck. I mean, we knew something was up at his house, but— _ fuck,  _ seriously _.  _ And he called you? To do what?”

“He wanted me to pick him up, and he said his mom said it was okay, so I went to get him. I was going to take him straight to the police, I really was, I just couldn’t leave him in that house all night when he sounded so scared. His mom wanted to talk to me, but I guess his dad found her and then he found me and he got—he got really mad,” David says, his voice dropping into a whisper as he wrings Gwen’s blanket between his fingers.

“Did he do this?” Gwen asks, her voice hardening as she reaches out to touch his neck.

“Mm-hm. He, um. He hit Max’s mom, so I hit him back.”

“Good for you, David. That piece of shit deserved it.”

“Only then he got even angrier, and he grabbed me.” David gestures lamely at his neck. “He tried to push me back towards the stairs, but Max jumped on him and bit him and he let go.”

Gwen pumps her fist in the air. “Hell yeah, Max! Get him!”

“He was really brave,” David agrees. “I’m so proud of him. His dad, uh, wasn’t. He threw Max down a flight of stairs, and—”

“He  _ what!” _

“Max’s okay,” David rushes to say, waving his hands in a frantic  _ calm down  _ gesture. “Everyone’s okay. He broke his arm, and he’s got a concussion, but he’s going to be just fine. They took him to the hospital and he had surgery. I wasn’t allowed to see him until this afternoon, but he’s safe, and still as snarky as ever.”

“What’s going to happen to him? They aren’t gonna send him back to that fucker, are they? Tell me they’re taking him out of the house!”

“The court hearing is tomorrow, but his social worker was confident he wouldn’t be returned. She already has an emergency foster home lined up for him. But, um.” David inhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “Emergency foster homes only keep kids for a few weeks. He’ll need to be moved to a more long-term residence soon, and I really don’t want to let Max stay in the system if I can help it, so I, uh—”

“You volunteered to foster him.” Gwen stares at him, her eyes going round. “David. Oh my  _ god,  _ David.”

David looks sheepishly at her, hunching his shoulders.

“Holy  _ shit!” _

“He needs a home, Gwen,” David says, leaning forward earnestly. “He needs a home and a family and we were able to give him that at camp, so why not now?”

“You—are you sure about this? This seems really rash. Did you just decide this last night, after a seriously traumatic event while you were high off of adrenaline?”

“Well I—I—”

“Oh, David.” Gwen drags her hands down her face. “Oh, no.”

“I can do it,” David insists. She meets his eyes, and the uncertainty there stings him. “I _can._ I know I’m not always the most responsible, or level-headed, or thoughtful, but I didn’t decide to do this on a passing whim. I know what Max is like. I know what raising him is like. What do you think we’ve been doing for the last three months?”

“It’s—being a camp counselor is so different from being someone’s foster parent, you—”

“I know. I’m not stupid.” He drops his eyes to his lap, his lower lip wobbling. He hadn’t expected Gwen to be thrilled, but he’d hoped for at least a smidgen of support, because if she thinks something is a completely awful idea, she’s—well, she’s usually right. David doesn’t want her to be right about this. He doesn’t want her to be right even the littlest bit. “I’m  _ not.” _

“Hey.” Gwen reaches out, cupping a hand under his chin and easing his head up until he meets her eyes. “I know you’re not stupid, David. But I also know you can be impulsive, and yesterday had to be very stressful for you. You were in a high-pressure situation and you wanted to do whatever you could to make Max feel better, including telling him that you would foster him. But do you—do you  _ really  _ want that?”

David nods firmly. If there’s one thing he’s sure about, it’s that. “I do.”

“Okay.” Gwen sits back, folding her hands in her lap. “I trust you to know what you want and what you can handle.”

“Thank you.” His eyes shine, the weight on his chest suddenly easing. Gwen believes in him! “I mean—I know I don’t know how to be a parent yet. I definitely don’t know how to be  _ Max’s  _ parent yet. I have a lot of learning to do, but I’ll be taking classes for that, and Max and I got pretty good at living with each other at camp. I’m willing to do whatever I need to in order to give him the life he deserves. It’s not going to be easy, and it’s not always going to be fun, but I’m ready for this.”

“Ready to be a dad, huh?”

David’s eyes widen at the word.  _ Dad.  _ He might be a  _ dad. _ A giddy smile spreads across his face, and he nods eagerly. “Yes! Or, er—I will be once I move into a bigger house, anyway.”

“You’re moving?”

“I have to. Max needs his own room.” David looks wistfully at Gwen’s walls, their soft lavender paint. “I thought about getting another apartment, but...I don’t know, maybe I’ll get a house. If I’m old enough to hold down a job and take care of a kid, I think I’m old enough to own my own home. Max’ll need a backyard to run around in, and I want to let him paint his own bedroom, and I—I don’t know, I’d love to build him a treehouse.”

“David.” Gwen’s eyes, when he meets them again, are warm and fond. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this already, huh?”

He nods shyly.

“Can you afford a house like that?”

“I can try. Money will be tight for a little while, but once the checks for fostering Max start coming in, it’ll be easier,” David says. 

Gwen sits back against the couch for a minute, reaching for her glass of soda and swirling it aimlessly. “Are you always going to have the fostering checks?”

“Well, I mean, as long as I’m fostering him, I assume so.”

“Are you going to foster him until he’s an adult?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Are you  _ sure  _ that’s the plan?”

“Well, I’m not going to get rid of him! I don’t see what else—oh.” David’s eyes fly wide.  _ “Oh.” _

“Yeah, dumbshit. What happens if you adopt him?”

David squeals, burying his face in his hands. Adoption! Adopting Max! Is that—can he—no no no no, that’s way too far ahead. Who knows if Max will even remain in the system? What if his parents get him back? His dad probably wouldn’t want him, but his mom…

“I—oh, jeez, that’s a long ways from here,” David says, “if it ever even happens. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s just focus on getting through the present, right now. So did they tell you yes? Are you gonna get to foster him?”

“They haven’t made any decisions yet, but I did talk to his social worker, and she knows what I want to do. I’m trying to get an interim license so I don’t have to wait three months to get him. I need to pass the home study and background check before they’ll consider that, though, and once I have the interim I’ll still need to go through the classes—but I’ll have Max with me at that point.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“He’s worth it.”

“He is.”

“I told him we would try to come visit next weekend. Do you want to come with me?”

“Absolutely I do. I gotta admit, I’ve missed the little shit.”

“I’m sure he missed you, too.” David ruffles her hair, and she swats playfully at him. “Anyway, I guess I’d better go. I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening. I know you have soap operas to watch and wine to drink and—”

“Hey, no, come on. Don’t be stupid. You can stay the night.”

“Really? I don’t want to bother you.”

“I live with you for three straight months out of the year. A single  _ night  _ is not going to kill me. Besides, I’ve missed you, and—” She reaches out, squeezing his shoulders. “You got me worried. I’d feel better if you stayed here, took a shower, ate some real food. No offense, but you look like shit.”

“Heh. Max said that same thing.”

“Kid’s got a good head on his shoulders, I’ll give him that. Now go on, get to the shower. You stink.”

David giggles as she flicks a corner of the blanket at him. He hops off of the couch—he already feels so much  _ lighter  _ after talking to Gwen—and heads for the shower. He scrubs himself off with her coconut-scented soaps, letting hot water pour over his skin until his achy muscles finally begin to relax. The steam soothes his raw throat, and he leans his head against the wall and breathes deeply until—

“David!” Gwen calls, hammering on the bathroom door. “What, are you drowning in there?”

“Ah, no—”

“Then you have no excuse for running my water bill up, you dick. Come on, I’ve got merlot and  _ Days of Our Lives  _ waiting on you.”

David grins and reaches for a towel. He dries himself off, then wraps his towel around his waist and pokes his head out of the bathroom door in a cloud of steam. “Do you have—”

Gwen tosses an armful of clean clothes into his face. 

“Thanks, Gwen!” He ducks back into the bathroom, tugging on one of Gwen’s oversized sleeping shirts and a pair of fleece pants that hang loose on his hips and don’t quite reach his ankles. Once he’s dressed, he heads back to the living room and collapses onto the couch next to Gwen. She ruffles his damp hair, then hands him a wine glass filled with deep red merlot.

“Here,” she says. “God knows you need it.”

David can’t help but agree. He sips gently on his wine as Gwen flares the blanket out over their laps and sets a bowl of cheesy popcorn between them. They stay up late that night, watching melodramatic soap operas and giggling over handfuls of thrown popcorn and maybe-one-too-many glasses of wine. David’s not quite sure when he falls asleep, but when he wakes up, he’s curled into Gwen’s side and she’s drooling into his hair, one arm tucked protectively around his waist. Sunlight patches across the both of them, and David takes a deep breath and smiles. Things really are gonna be okay.

Now he just has to prove that to Max.


	5. nesting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mentions of child abuse, neglect, drug use, nightmares, insomnia

“I liked the one on Maine Street,” Gwen says, propping her feet on the dusty dashboard of David’s truck. “That little kitchen was cute.”

David hums thoughtfully. “I guess. Did you see the backyard, though?”

“I mean, it wasn’t huge, but let’s be real—Max isn’t going to want to run around playing catch all day. Just give him somewhere to sunbathe and he’ll be happy. He’s like a cat.”

“There weren’t any good treehouse trees.”

“Ah.” Gwen clucks her tongue. “Okay, well, what about the one downtown? That had tons of trees in the yard.”

“Too many.”

“You can chop some down, get firewood.”

“For what fireplace?”

“Build a fireplace.”

“It would be nice to have a fireplace,” David admits. “The one on the corner of Houston and McCanse had a cute fireplace.”

“Oh? Liked that one, did you?”

“I did. Stiiiill weren’t any good treehouse trees though.”

“You’re awfully picky about your trees,” Gwen says, arching an eyebrow at him as he pulls into Sonic. “If you want to stay in Sleepy Peak, you’re gonna have to make some compromises. You don’t exactly have a host of options. Alternatively, you could move to the city.”

David makes a face, although he tries to keep the disgust out of his voice as he orders a strawberry milkshake for himself and a cherry coke for Gwen. Orders placed, he leans back and says, “I’m not much of a city person anymore. It’s just too crowded and smelly and busy and— _ ick.  _ I mean, no offense. I know you like it for some, uh, reason.”

“Offense taken,” Gwen says wryly, “but I understand. Besides, your job’s here, and it would suck to be uprooted from that.”

“It would suck so much,” David agrees vehemently. He loves his tiny classroom in his tiny school with his tiny fourth-graders. 

“Speaking of which, when does the school year start? Think Max is going to make it in time to enroll?”

“It starts next Wednesday, so—no, I don’t think he’ll make it. If we’re lucky, though, he’ll only miss the first couple of days!” 

“How is the little bastard, anyway? Has his social worker told you anything since Saturday?”

“No, but she’s not really allowed to tell me that stuff yet, since Max isn’t legally mine in any sense of the word,” David says regretfully. “I’m hoping I’ll hear from her sometime this week to let me know what else I need to do to get my license for him, though. I filled out the paperwork for my background check and sent it in this morning. I have to swing by the police office to get fingerprinted later.”

“Mind if I come along?”

“What for?”

“Well, I was doing some research,” Gwen says, shrugging like it doesn’t matter (it does), “and if you ever want me to babysit the kid at my apartment, I also need to have a background check.”

“Aww, Gwen—”

“Oh, don’t make it a big deal.”

“Of course you can come along—police station field trip for the win!”

Gwen snorts. When their drinks arrive, they sip on them in silence. A warm late summer breeze blows through the truck’s windows, stirring their hair. Several white clouds drift lazily overhead, tugged north with the wind. David pulls out his phone to look up the address of the next house he’s planning to visit. This will be the sixth (and final) visit of the day, and he still hasn’t found a home he’s completely satisfied with. 

“Maybe my standards  _ are  _ too high,” he muses.

“You can say that again,” Gwen says, leaning back in her seat and draping her arm over her eyes. “Max is going to be happy—or at least not completely pissed—with whatever you give him as long as he has wifi, air conditioning, and a place to get away from you. Don’t worry too much.”

“I just—I want everything to be perfect.”

“You’re nesting.”

“I’m what?”

“Neeeesting,” Gwen teases. “It’s cute.”

David’s face warms, and he slurps studiously at his strawberry shake. 

“But really, perfect is kind of impossible to obtain, so just do your best. Max doesn’t need an enormous backyard or expensive toys or a living room with an aesthetic backsplash. He just needs somewhere he can be taken care of, somewhere he can feel safe. Apartment or mansion, it doesn’t make a difference.”

“You think?”

“My psych major says yes.” Gwen elbows him gently. “Just relax a little, okay? Besides, if you buy a house and you find something you  _ really  _ don’t like, you can remodel—you’re pretty good at building stuff, y’know?”

He smiles at her, his eyes crinkling up at the edges. “Thank you, Gwen.”

“Yeah, yeah, you big sap. C’mon, let’s go. I wanna see this house before it gets dark.”

They take their time touring the last house, fawning over the flowers in the front yard and combing through the drawers in the kitchen. David still isn’t  _ delighted  _ with it, but he does feel more relaxed as he strolls through the hallways. It doesn’t have to be perfect.  _ He  _ doesn’t have to be perfect. He just has to be good, and willing to rebuild if something doesn’t work the first time.

* * *

Max spends the rest of the weekend at the hospital. Most of the time, he’s curled up in his narrow cot and snoozing through the dull ache in his head. His time spent there isn’t  _ terrible.  _ He gets three square meals each day, and Kim (as well as several of the other pediatric nurses) always make sure to visit him for a couple of hours. They seem to think it’s sad that he’s in the hospital all alone. He guesses it probably is—more than sad, though, he’s fucking  _ bored. _

Fortunately, Dr. Browne lets him have free run of the kids’ playroom.  _ Un _ fortunately, he’s only allowed to play on the Playstation for an hour, because of his concussion. He has to admit that after staring at the screen for so long, his eyes sting and his head throbs and he’s more than happy to go back to his room and relax in the dark. His arm aches more often than not, especially as they wean him off of opiods and onto ibuprofen—but it’s a beareable ache. Dr. Thorton says the incision is healing well, and the swelling of his forearm decreases dramatically as he continues to ice it and rest it on its throne of pillows. The bruises across his back and chest still look—well, sort of horrific, but he knows they’ll begin fading soon, and he’s used to the dull pain they bring him.

On Monday morning, Dr. Thorton applies Max’s cast. It starts at the middle of his bicep, then extends to curl snugly around his fingers. As promised, it’s bright blue. Kim is the first one to sign it, her name looping in gaudy red cursive near his wrist. Dr. Thorton signs it next, along with Dr. Brown and Liu and even the EMTs who picked him up Friday night. When Mrs. Casper comes to pick him up later that afternoon, she signs it, too. 

“Are you ready to go?” she asks, capping her Sharpie once her brisk silver signature sits on his elbow. “The Carpenters are very excited to meet you.”

So Max changes out of his hospital gown and into the fresh set of clothes she brought him, then follows her out to a sleek black car. He slips into the back seat, immediately yanking his backpack towards himself and unzipping it. Mr. Honeynuts looks warmly up at him with one black button eye, and a smile dares to tug at Max’s mouth. He’s tempted to hug the bear, but he won’t, not with Mrs. Casper watching. Instead, he pats Mr. Honeynuts’ head perfunctorily and rifles through the contents of the bag, making sure everything he needs is there. Satisfied that none of his things have been sabotaged, he rezips the bag and leans against the window.

“Buckle, please,” Mrs. Casper prompts, and he jerks the seatbelt across his chest. 

The drive to the Carpenters’ house is a quiet (but mercifully short) one. Mrs. Casper tries to engage him in conversation— “It’s beautiful weather we’re having isn’t it?” and “I bet you’re looking forward to a new year at school” and “What sports do you like?” amongst other various bullshit— but Max isn’t particularly in the mood for small talk. 

“My parents,” he says, instead. “Did the court say it was okay for you guys to take me from them?”

“They did,” Mrs. Casper says. “You’ll be in the state’s custody for the foreseeable future.”

“What about David?”

“I’ll call him as soon as I drop you off. We’ll try to start processing him for a license as soon as we can,” Mrs. Casper assures him. “But for your safety, these things are difficult to rush.”

Max’s mouth twists, and he picks aimlessly at the sling his right arm rests in. “Right.”

They pull up a long driveway to a small white cottage, and Mrs. Casper opens the door for him. He hops out, his sneakers crunching on the gravel underfoot. The grass in the yard gleams glossy and green under the sunshine, and several artistically-placed shrubs line the front porch. A porch swing sits adjacent to the front door, topped with well-worn cushions, while the front door itself is bright yellow.

It looks exactly like a place Max doesn’t belong, bright and clean and well-tended.

“Come on,” Mrs. Casper says, offering Max an encouraging smile before heading for the front door. He follows reluctantly behind her, hunching his shoulders as she rings the bell.

The door swings open a few seconds later, and a stocky, dark-skinned man with weathered gray hair greets Mrs. Casper with an enthusiastic handshake. Then he hunkers down to Max’s level, offering that same wrinkled hand to him. Max ignores it, and the hand falls without complaint. “Hey there, sport,” the old man says. “My name’s Ted Carpenter, but feel free to call me Ted. You’d be Max, am I right?”

“Yeah,” Max says, his grip on his backpack strap tightening. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. Come on in. Louise made cookies.”

“I certainly did,” an equally old woman—Louise, Max assumes—says. She beams at Max as he steps into the house, setting a tray of cookies out on the counter before plucking off her floral-patterned oven mitts and waving at him. “Hi, Max. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’d offer you a cookie, but they’ve got a ways to cool yet. Ted, how about you show him to his room so he can put his things away while Mrs. Casper and I talk?”

As Mrs. Casper and Louise take a seat at the table with a stack of paperwork, Ted heads out of the kitchen. “Come on, Max,” he says. “Right this way.”

Max follows Ted down a long hallway lined with framed pictures. The carpet underfoot feels soft and plush and perfect, and Max’s stomach twists when he thinks about how his filthy sneakers will track dirt everywhere. He tries to step a little more lightly. As they walk, Max catches himself studying the pictures on the wall—and Ted, evidently, notices.

“That’s the family,” he explains, his voice fond. “Louise and I have a couple of children—two daughters, though they’re moved out now. One of them’s gone to college and the other lives with her wife up north. They were some of our first foster kids.”

“So what happened?” Max asks. “You got too attached?”

Ted chuckles, opening a door at the end of the hallway. “I guess you could say that. Here, this is your room. Feel free to look around, put your things wherever you want them. I’ll be in the kitchen with Louise and Mrs. Casper whenever you’re done.”

Max drops his backpack on the floor, waiting until Ted’s footsteps fade down the hallway—once they do, he slinks further into the room. It’s not massive, but Max and his things don’t take up much space, anyhow. A twin-sized bed sits against the far wall, topped with a heavy brown comforter. A pair of throw pillows, in bright blue and green, add a much-needed pop of color. Sheer drapes hang loose next to the windows, and a beanbag tucks up in the corner. The bedside table sports a simple alarm clock and a small lamp. Several posters with inspirational garbage scrawled on them festoon the walls. A closet and dresser take up most of the wall perpendicular to the door, and Max shoves the clothes from his backpack into the dresser without even bothering to unfold them. He’ll just be packing up again, after all. Much more gently, he sets Mr. Honeynuts on the bed (after giving him the hug he’d missed out on in the car). 

“Listen,” he whispers to his bear, “we’ve got this shit. Just a couple of weeks and we are _out_ of here. If we can survive camp, we can survive these weird old people too. I mean, c’mon, there’s air conditioning.”

Mr. Honeynuts offers him an encouraging look, then flops onto his side. Max groans and sets him back up, bracing him with the throw pillows before returning to his bag. He tugs out his hairbrush and toothbrush, cramming them into one of the dresser drawers. His backpack itself he stores in the bottom of the closet and, after a moment of consideration, he kicks his sneakers off and leaves them there, too. Just as he’s heading back towards the kitchen, he glimpses movement in the corner of his eye. He pads back over to the window, peering out into the backyard and—

Oh my god.

_ Oh my god that’s a dog. _

This emergency babysitting thing just got  _ so much better.  _ Max bounces earnestly on his toes, pressing his face to the glass. The dog looks like a daschund. It has a tiny hotdog-shaped body covered with brown fur, and its ears flop as it circles impatiently outside of the back door. Max wants to go meet it  _ rightnowimmediatelyatonce,  _ but he supposes that isn’t polite. He’s not usually one for politeness, but he’s in a precarious predicament at the moment, and he doesn’t exactly want to be kicked out of the Carpenters’ house before David has a chance to pick him up—so he’ll be polite, for the time being. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s manipulating gullible people into doing what he wants.

“Hey, bud,” Ted says when Max returns to the kitchen and stands awkwardly in the doorway. “Come have a seat. I’ll get you a cookie—do you like milk?”

Max nods, sliding into a seat next to Mrs. Casper at the kitchen table. 

“How do you like your room?” Mrs. Casper asks.

“It’s good,” Max says. Ted slides a plate of cookies towards him, along with a glass of milk. Then, although he grimaces inwardly at the  _ bowing and scraping  _ he has to do, he adds, “Thanks. For the room, and for the cookies, and everything.”

“You’re more than welcome, dear,” Louise says, smiling warmly at him as he drowns his cookies in the milk. “I’ll give you a proper house tour as soon as Mrs. Casper’s on her way.”

“Do you have any last-minute questions for me?” Mrs. Casper asks Max. “Anything at all?”

“Just one thing.” Max sets his half-eaten cookie down, doing his best to look innocent and hopeful as he glances at the Carpenters. “My friend David, can he visit here this weekend?”

The Carpenters glance at Mrs. Casper, who holds her hands up in surrender. “That’s your choice,” she tells them. “David Bouchard was his camp counselor over the summer, and he’s applying to become Max’s foster father. I would feel safe letting him visit, but ultimately, it’s up to the two of you.”

Max turns his gaze back to the both of them and offers them his best puppy-dog eyes. “Please? I really miss him.”

Louise rests a hand over her heart, and Ted chuckles. “Well, of course he can visit,” Louise says. “He sounds like a lovely man.”

Hook, line, and sinker. Max beams at them, swinging his legs and reaching for the last half of his cookie. As promised, after Mrs. Casper leaves, Louise takes him on a tour of the house. She shows him the living room, the bathrooms, the master bedroom, the basement, and finally—finally!—the backyard.

“This,” she says, scooping up the dachshund, “is Jordan. Do you like dogs?”

Max nods and, for the first time, the smile that crosses his face doesn’t feel plastered on. “Can I pet her?”

“You certainly can. She’s very friendly.”

Max reaches out, letting Jordan sniff his knuckles before he gently touches one floppy ear. She licks his fingers, wriggling in excitement, and Max’s chest warms all the way through. 

“Here.” Louise sets Jordan down, and the dog runs around Max’s feet, sniffing his legs. “We have some of her toys over here—you can play with her, if you’d like, or you can watch some TV or grab one of the books in the living room while Ted and I get to work on dinner.”

So Max settles down in the backyard and plays fetch with Jordan as the sun begins to drift towards the western horizon, drawing the shadows long across the ground. It’s the most fun he’s had in—in a really long time, he realizes. Jordan is so unashamedly  _ happy,  _ so thrilled to interact with him, gladdened by his very presence in spite of the fact he’s an absolute stranger. She reminds him of someone, he realizes. 

She reminds him of Nikki.

Max’s heart twists, and he lets Jordan’s rubber ball fall from his fingers and into the grass. Nikki. He misses Nikki and Neil so  _ much.  _ Mama had let him use her phone to text them a few times since leaving camp, but it wasn’t ever enough. He hopes they didn’t feel like he was ignoring them, whenever he didn’t answer; Mama was picky about when Max got to use the phone. Fortunately, he knew her passcode, so he could steal it while she was sleeping. Getting caught wasn’t fun, but for Nikki and Neil—god, for them, it was worth it.

Max hugs his knees to his chest, taking a shaky breath as he remembers his best friends and wonders if he’ll ever see them again. Then Jordan bounds over to him, shoving her wet dog nose into his face. He can’t help the wobbly smile that spreads across his face, and then she licks his cheek and he giggles and pushes her back gently. “Eeeww,” he says. “Gross, girl.”

Jordan wags her tail, dancing her front paws and looking at him with shining eyes. She picks up her ball, dropping it next to his feet and whining hopefully. Max scoops it up and flings it across the yard—it’s harder to do left-handed, but he’s learning to manage. Jordan rushes after it, her stubby legs carrying her with surprising speed. She brings it back to him, then flops down in the waning sunshine and lets him scratch her belly. 

Soon, Ted calls him in for dinner. They eat around the kitchen table—real homemade food, not prepackaged ramen or canned ravioli—and Max can’t help but feel like he’s playing pretend. He can act like a good kid. Louise and Ted can act like they care about him. The three of them, together, can act like they’re one big happy family living in the cradle of domestic bliss—

But that’s all it is: acting.

The next week passes in a blur of strange, peaceful domesticity. Max sleeps restlessly for a few hours each night, and then he wakes up and he eats sugary cereal while watching shitty cartoons because Louise and Ted seem to think anything that’s not PG will ruin him. (He bites back the urge to remind them he’s been beaten by his own parents, he lived in a drug den, and he popped his first pills when he was seven—whatever’s going to  _ ruin  _ him has already done it.) 

In the afternoons, he reads some of the books they have in the living room. He likes the horror novels the best—Louise doesn’t like him reading those, but Ted convinces her to let him. Stephen King’s a classic author, after all. While he reads, Jordan curls up beside him and Max pets her silky fur and rubs her ears. Sometimes he’ll go outside and sit underneath the oak in the backyard just to get some time alone. That’s hard to come by, with two strangers doting on him near-constantly. He’s come to realize that (as much as he may have yearned for it when he was younger) constant attention is vastly overrated and bothersome, and it grates on him.

Still, even  _ with  _ their attention, Max finds himself lonely and alienated. He wants his  _ friends,  _ not some weird old people who take in kids to make themselves feel better about their shitty retirement. He wants Nikki and Neil, he wants to be able to run around and wreak havoc and not act like some goody-two-shoes dumbfuck. He wants to be able to act like  _ him,  _ but he’s fully aware that  _ him  _ is a bad kid who won’t last two days in a nice, neat, perfect home like this. He’s lucky David’s such a pushover—but honestly, it’s still hard to believe David  _ wants  _ him, even knowing how much of an asshole he is.

And he...yeah. He misses David, too.

In the evenings, they’ll have a real dinner around the table again, and Ted will talk about sports and Louise will talk about racecars and Max will smile and nod and look like he cares because staying on their good side is more advantageous than getting on their bad side, at this point. Then they’ll watch a movie, and after it’s over Max will shower and retire to his bedroom. Louise always reminds him to brush his teeth. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. He doesn’t, more often than not, because he’s got a toothache near the back of his mouth and touching that tooth doesn’t make it particularly happy.

Sometimes he lies awake for several hours after Louise and Ted have gone to bed, staring at the ceiling and picking at his cast. As per usual, he can’t quite seem to get his thoughts to slow enough for sleep. They swarm through a variety of things—Nikki and Neil, David and Gwen, the other campers, his parents, Mrs. Casper, his injured arm and how heavy it feels now, the low ache of his injuries, what’s going to happen if David isn’t going to be able to take him, where he’s going to go next, what happens if things go wrong, what happens if he gets sent back to his parents, back to  _ Papa _ —

Anyway, it’s hard to sleep.

When he  _ does  _ sleep, it’s in fitful starts and stops. His dreams aren’t nightmares, per se, but they are strange and disorientating and, far too often, a little alarming. He’ll jolt awake, his heart hammering in his chest, and reach immediately for Mr. Honeynuts. The bear’s fur still smells like home—like cigarette smoke and Mama’s perfume. He breathes deeply, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending he’s home again and Papa isn’t there but Mama is, and Mama loves him and she hugs him and kisses his forehead the way she used to when he was little and sick.

The monotony of _morningnoonnight_ is more than a little boring, so Max is just a _teensy_ bit excited when Saturday rolls around and Louise announces that David and Gwen will be arriving later that afternoon. He scarfs down his cereal, then sits and waits anxiously in the living room, reading the same paragraph in Stephen King’s _Misery_ about a thousand times. When he hears the crunch of tires on the gravel drive, his heart jumps in his chest.

“I’ll get it,”” he says, already scrambling for the front door. He shuts the door behind him and hopes the Carpenters will take that hint for what it is. He’ll be a good little suck-up of a kid if he has to, but not around David and Gwen—at least not right away, and certainly not for very long. He skids to a stop in the driveway just as Gwen steps out of David’s truck, slamming the door shut behind her. He crams his free hand into the pocket of his jeans (the other stays tucked against his chest, held in place by his sling) and tries to look as disinterested as possible.

“Hey,” he says, when Gwen’s eyes meet his. Her eyes widen, glittering with some sort of tumultuous emotion as she looks at him—worry? fear? anger?—and Max loathes the sudden shyness that flickers to life in his chest. “Uh, long time no see. Sorry David dragged you all the way out here. I know you probably have, like, an actual job now and everything, so—”

Gwen dives for him. Max bites back on a startled yelp as her arms wrap around him, dragging him into a fierce hug. “You little  _ shit,”  _ she hisses, and he hides his grin against her shoulder. That’s nice and familiar, at least. “Jesus, you had me worried sick! Don’t you ever do that again.”

Max snorts, then brings his good hand up. It hovers tentatively over her shoulder, not quite sure whether to rest or pull or push or simply  _ cling.  _ Eventually, he decides on the safest choice and lets it fall back to his side. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m certainly not planning on it.”

Gwen starts to say something else, but before she can, David squeals, “Group hug!” and Max yelps as a new pair of lanky arms wrap around him. Fortunately, Gwen and David don’t push their luck—they both release him after a few seconds, straightening back up. Max dusts himself off and scowls up at them both, crossing his arms as best he can. 

“Oh, Max,” David says, clasping his hands in front of his chest, his eyes shining. The bruises around his throat have faded some, slinking from a deep blue-black to a dimmer purple. Max avoids looking at them for very long. “It’s so good to see you again! How have you been? Are you okay? Is everything going well?”

“I’m fine,” Max says. “You worry too much.”

“You’re not giving them too much trouble, are you?” Gwen asks, jerking his chin back at the little cottage.

“Believe it or not, I  _ am  _ capable of acting like a civilized human being on special occasions.”

“That’s news to me.” Gwen ruffles his hair and he swats her away. “Brat. Come on, let’s go inside.”

Max leads the way back to the cottage, but he ducks out of the way as soon as the Carpenters near them. He’s not particularly interested in being a part of their mutual fawning. “Well, hello there,” Louise says as David and Gwen step inside, beaming at them. “You must be David, and you must be Gwen. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

“A pleasure to meet you too, ma’am!” David says, his voice as chipper as ever. 

“Yes, it’s very nice to meet you. You’re Mrs. Carpenter, aren’t you? Max says you’ve been taking great care of him.” Gwen says in her best Customer Service Voice. Max snorts, hiding his smirk behind his hand as Ted goes to greet them, too. Louise’s eyes linger on David’s bruises, but to her credit, she doesn’t ask about them. Gwen stands next to David, her hands folded neatly behind her back. It’s strange, seeing her so formal. Max kind of hates it.

Once the adults have their introductions out of the way, they head for the living room. Gwen and David take the couch, and Max plops down beside them. “So, uh,” he says, scuffing the carpet with his foot, “what have you guys been up to, anyway?”

Gwen and David readily regale Max with their business over the past week. Gwen’s been working, mostly, but David’s job doesn’t start until the school year does, so he’s been looking at houses. “I found the cutest little one, Max,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “I made an offer on it yesterday. If everything goes well, I’ll have the deed by this Monday and the home study done by Wednesday. Oh, you’re just going to love it!”

“He really did look forever,” Gwen adds. “I think he must’ve toured every single unowned house in Sleepy Peak.”

“It’s not  _ quite  _ perfect,” David admits. “It needs some touching-up, but I think I can handle that. Do you want to see pictures?”

Max nods and scoots closer to him. David pulls out his phone, clicking on an album titled HOME <333 and flipping through the photos for Max to see. It’s a barren house, and without any furniture, it...doesn’t really look like much. But the kitchen is fairly spacy, and there’s a big backyard, and a fireplace in the den. The bedrooms are both upstairs, across the hallway from each other. For all intents and purposes, they’re identical.

“You can pick whichever one you want,” David says, “but you’d better pick it now, so I can get all your stuff moved in before you get there. What’s it gonna be? Left or right?”

“I don’t give a—” He snaps his mouth shut when Louise shifts in the corner of his eye. “I mean, I don’t really care. Right is fine.”

“Then consider it yours.”

The rest of their visit is spent catching up on Max’s side of the story. Max tells them what  _ he’s  _ been doing—the same boring shit, day after day after  _ day.  _ He introduces them to Jordan, who David coos over. He wonders, briefly, if David would ever let  _ him  _ have a dog, but he shoves the thought aside shortly after. Stupid to expect anything more from David when Max has already demanded so much from him.

“So,” Gwen asks, glancing over at the Carpenters, “has he been good for you? He was a little stinker at camp.”

Louise chuckles. “Oh, no, no, he’s been just perfect. He’s such a polite little boy—we’ve loved having him.”

Gwen tosses Max an impressed look, and he smirks.

“So you’re trying to foster him, is that right?” Louise asks, peering at David.

“Oh, yes!” David nods earnestly. “My background check was just approved. Mrs. Casper says that once I complete the home study, she’ll give me an interim license. If everything goes well, I’ll be here to pick Max up sometime soon.”

“This your first time, then?” Ted asks, arching one bushy eyebrow.

“My first time fostering, yes,” David says, leaning forward and putting his hands on his knobbly knees. God, he looks like a little kid compared to Ted— _ this  _ is the person who’s going to be paying Max’s bills and keeping a roof over his head? Jesus Christ. “But I’ve worked with kids for quite a while. I’ve been a camp counselor at a summer camp for six years now, and I’ve been working as an elementary school teacher for two. Max and I are pretty familiar with each other. He’s been coming to my camp for the last three years, isn’t that right, Max?”

Max bites back on the urge to make a snarky comment. It’s a monumental effort. “Yeah. Right. My parents didn’t like for me to be home all day, so once school let out it was easier to ship me off and pay other people to take care of me.”

_ Kind of,  _ he thinks,  _ exactly like the state is doing right now.  _

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” Louise says, a frown flickering across her face. “That’s just terrible. But, well—well I hope you had fun at camp, at least.”

“I did,” Max says, and it’s actually not a  _ complete  _ lie. He decidedly ignores the way David lights up beside him, grinning ear to ear.

“So I bet you’re looking forward to going with David, eh, sport?” Ted asks. “It’ll be like camp year ‘round.”

Max forces a grin onto his face. “Yep! Sure will.  _ Super  _ excited.”

Beside him, David squeals. 

Eventually, David and Gwen have to leave, and a knotted ball of anxiety begins to build in Max’s chest again. He follows them to the door, his shoulders hunched and a scowl creeping across his face. He doesn’t want to see them go. He doesn’t want to be left behind  _ again.  _ It’s not fair that they get to go anywhere they want and he has to stay with these state-mandated  _ babysitters  _ because he’s eight years too young to make his own decisions—despite the fact he’s been taking care of himself (and his mama, more often than not) for the past five years.

“Hey, kid, I’ll see you soon,” Gwen says, setting a hand on top of his head. He pushes her off. “Behave.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just keep David out of trouble, would you?”

Gwen snorts. “I don’t know. That’s asking an awful lot of one person.”

David kneels in front of him, offering him a warm smile. “There won’t be any trouble, don’t worry. I’ll be back in just a few days,” he promises. “You’ve done great so far—just give me a little more time. I really appreciate you being so patient.”

Max wrinkles his nose. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“That positive reinforcement crap. It’s weird.”

David straightens up, laughing. “Aw, Max—you’re gonna have to get used to that soon, buddy!”

Max groans, and he refuses to spare David another glance as he and Gwen walk out of the front door. As soon as they’re out of sight, though, he rushes to the window. Misery curls through him, and he gnaws on his lower lip as they stroll down the driveway with their backs to him. Watching them walk away stirs up the pit of insecurities that sits heavy in his throat—what if they don’t come back? What if he never sees them again? What if what if what if what if—

He swallows hard as he watches David’s little green truck pull down the drive.

The next few days pass in the same slow routine of _morningnoonnight._ On Monday, he returns to the hospital for a check-up with Dr. Thorton. She x-rays his arm through the cast and declares that it’s healing phenomenally well. His concussion symptoms, too, are more or less nonexistent. The scabs from the belt buckle remain, but they’re dry, and he imagines they’ll flake off soon. His bruises have faded to dim purple. They look a good deal better than David’s, but Max suspects that’s because his bruises are on brown skin and David’s bruises are on the pastiest white possible. (It still baffles him how a person can spend that much time outside and still be _that_ _white.)_

Then, on Wednesday, David calls him. 

_ “Max!”  _ he more-or-less shrieks, and Max winces and holds the phone away from his face. That is  _ way  _ too much enthusiasm for 8:00 AM on a weekday—or, like, ever. “Max  _ guess who just passed his home study!” _

Max’s heart suddenly flips in his chest, his eyes widening. He yanks the phone closer again. Maybe he can forgive David’s enthusiasm, just this once. “Wait, seriously? You did?”

“I did,” David says, his voice laced with ecstatic excitement. “So, what do you say? Are you ready to come home?”

Max’s throat tightens, and he swallows rapidly to even out his voice. Even so, his words wobble slightly when he manages to open his mouth and say, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all for the comments and kudos on the last chapter aaaaa !!!! i havent had time to go through and answer them all individually this week, but u can bet i appreciated all of them and they were super encouraging !!! :D


	6. his father's fingerprints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: references to child abuse, drug abuse, child neglect (physical and emotional)

Mrs. Casper drops Max off at David’s early on Thursday morning. The house David purchased stands near the edge of town (if tiny-ass Sleepy Peak can even rightfully be called a _town)._ Pale, flaking yellow paint coats the siding, although the trimming, front door, and railings are all off-white. The wooden porch looks rather barren, as does the front yard. Patchy green grass, speckled liberally with dandelions and overgrown weeds, sprawls around the dirt driveway. It really doesn’t look like much, but it already feels a thousand times better than a shitty apartment or a pristine white cottage.

Max follows Mrs. Casper up to the front door, but neither one of them has time to knock before it flies open. “Max, Mrs. Casper!” David says, a beaming smile on his face. “Hi, guys. Come in, make yourselves at home. There are fresh donuts in the kitchen.”

Max edges past Mrs. Casper and David as they greet each other in the pretentious, meaningless way that adults always do, shaking hands and exchanging useless pleasantries. He locates the kitchen easily, because from it drifts the strong, rich scent of freshly-brewed coffee. His mouth waters at the smell, but he doesn’t immediately reach for a cup. He’ll wait until Mrs. Casper is gone—he doesn’t _want_ to get David into trouble—and then he’ll down the whole damn pot. He looks longingly at the coffee for a moment more, then snags a chocolate donut from the box on the breakfast bar, scrambles into a seat at the table in the dining room, and drops his worn and weary backpack into the seat beside him.

David has a _thing_ about sweets (which, given the anarchy that occurred with the introduction of candy into the camp’s fragile ecosystem, Max thinks maybe isn’t a _completely_ stupid thing anymore), so Max doubts donuts will be a regular thing. He’ll savor it while he can. He licks the donut’s icing off as David and Mrs. Casper take their seats across from him, and David beams at him. 

“How is it?” he asks. Max offers him a thumbs-up. “Do you want milk or anything?”

“Is it chocolate milk?” Max asks. 

David wilts. “It is...not.”

“Eh, I don’t really care that much,” Max says, because watching David droop like that makes an ugly snare of guilt catch in his chest. Besides, he really _doesn’t_ care that much. Chocolate milk is obviously better than regular, but it’s not like he ever had it at home, either—and he’s not exactly in a position to be picky. “Regular’s fine too.”

David pours him a glass of perfectly regular milk, setting it down next to his elbow. He pours himself a glass, too, then slides a mug of coffee and a bowl of sugar towards Mrs. Casper. Once the three of them are seated in the dining room with their drinks and their donuts, David and Mrs. Casper begin going over their paperwork—and there’s _so much paperwork_ involved in this whole stupid process. Max is instantly bored. He entertains himself by drowning tiny pieces of donut in his milk and then trying to fish them out with his fingers, but that’s only fun for so long. Eventually, he resigns himself to propping his face in his hands and studying the parts of the house that he can see.

An L-shaped breakfast bar with a trio of bar stools separates the kitchen and the dining room. The dining room itself is rather small—just big enough for wooden table they’re currently sitting at, really—but the kitchen, compared to the rest of the house, is fairly large. There are big windows on two of the kitchen walls, and bright morning sunlight streams through both of them and splatters across the wooden floorboards in golden-white droplets. Another massive bay window sits on one side of the dining room, framed by sheer beige curtains. Looking outside, Max sees grass, and grass, several trees, and a dry shrub, and some more grass. Almost half a mile down the dirt road, there’s another tiny house. Their neighbors, so it would seem, like their personal space.

At the back of the dining room, there’s a wall with a little wooden door that has Max itching with curiosity. The wall wraps around the other side of the dining room, stopping short of the breakfast bar. In the center of that wall, there’s an open archway that leads to a narrow hall. If he turns around, he can still see the kitchen, and just a smidgen of the living room—for the most part, it’s a very open plan, which Max kind of likes and kind of hates. On one hand, it means he’ll be able to scramble away faster, if he needs to. On the other hand, it also means fewer hiding spots. He drums his fingers uncertainly on the table. 

When David and Mrs. Casper have finally finished their paperwork, Mrs. Casper stands and bends to Max’s level. How patronizing. He fights the urge to scowl, as he has so very often these past two weeks. “Okay, Max,” she says. “I’m going to leave you with David now, but I’ll be back in a couple of weeks to check on you. If you need me for any reason at all, here’s my number.”

Mrs. Casper hands him a tiny business card, which he tucks into his pocket. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Take care of yourself, alright? I’ll see you later.”

She offers David a few parting words, too, and he escorts her to the front door and even _waves_ as she pulls back onto the dirt road outside. As soon as she’s gone, Max makes a beeline for the coffee pot. He refills his milk glass with strong black coffee, cupping it between his palms and humming happily as the warmth sinks into his skin. 

“Only one glass,” David warns. Max flips him off. He doesn’t rise to the bait—not that Max particularly expected him to. Instead, he sighs fondly and gestures towards the living room. “So, what do you say? Do you want the official Bouchard-Deshpande household tour?”

“Only if you _never ever_ say that name again.”

David laughs. “Deal.”

Max grabs his backpack, then follows David into the living room, still nursing his glass of coffee. David shows him the couches (springy, well-worn things Max expects came from Goodwill) and the chipped coffee table, as well as the fireplace and the TV that hangs above it. The floors are sturdy hardwood instead of carpet, and Max feels a tad better about tracking sneaker-dirt all over them. David shows him where the remotes are kept on the fireplace mantle and gives him the Netflix and Hulu passwords. 

Next on their tour, they head back to the kitchen. David shows him their food, and Max makes solid mental notes on where it’s all kept and how much of it there is (and how much he can sneak back to his room without being caught). The fridge and cabinets are sparse, at the moment, but David promises to fill them out soon. Max leads the way into the dining room, next, heading immediately for the wooden door at the back. He yanks it open to find—

“Huh? The hell is this?” he asks. The room is tiny, hardly larger than a closet, and made almost entirely of empty shelving and drawers. 

“A pantry. Erm—not a very useful one, at the moment, but it will be! We’ll have all sorts of snacks stored away soon, you’ll see.”

Max has to admit, the idea of squirreling away food is very appealing. David leads him through the archway at the side of the dining room and into the hallway, next. Two more doors sit on the left-hand side of the hall—the right-hand wall, Max infers, butts up against the living room. The first door, when Max opens it, leads to a small bathroom. The second door opens into a utility room with a washer and dryer. A sliding glass door sits at the back of that room, and Max pokes his head out and into the backyard. Compared to the amount of land he’s used to seeing in the city, it’s massive.

“Plenty of space to run around,” David says, looking hopefully at Max. “Lots of trees to climb—I’ll admit it needs some landscaping, but we can work on that next spring.”

“What?” Max asks. “So it can all die while we’re away for the summer?”

David frowns. Clearly, he hadn’t thought of that.

“What’s at the end of the hall?” Max asks, ducking back inside and closing the glass door.

“Oh, that! I’m not actually sure yet. I’ve thought about turning it into an office, so I can get my grading done without taking up the whole kitchen table.” David leads him to the final door a the very end of the doorway, opening it. A barren, sunny room stretches out in front of him. “If you have any better ideas, though, I’m all ears.”

Max shrugs. “An office sounds fine to me. It’ll keep you out of my hair, anyway.”

“It sure will!” David says cheerfully, then turns on heel and heads back down the hall. Max trails after him, studying the warps in the wooden floor and the peeling paint on the walls. Their next stop is the garage, which houses a variety of ominous things including (but certainly not limited to): an ax, a chainsaw, several table saws, a variety of hammers, a box of nails and screws, and a drill. “Here’s my little woodshop. Pretty cool, huh? I finally had the chance to break all this stuff out of storage! My last apartment, uh, didn’t allow most of it.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Max takes a few steps down the stairs, peering around the corner. There, along the far wall, is a large, oddly-shaped lump of black fabric. Max’s eyes go round. “No _way._ Is that…?”

“My bike,” David says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Nothing too fancy, but she’s solid. You can go look, if you want.”

“Holy shit!” Max scrambles over to it, pushing the cover up and out of the way to reveal a gleaming green motorcycle. “You are _shitting_ me right now. _You?_ Ride a _motorcycle?”_

“When it’s just me, sometimes. Heh, it was actually the more affordable option in college. Plus I, uh—I thought it was pretty cool.”

Max gapes at him.

“Do you...like it?” David asks hopefully.

“Fuck yes. I’m just trying to wrap my head around the fact that _you—”_ Max flails at him. “—have a motorcycle.”

“Well, while you’re wrapping your head around that, do you wanna go see the upstairs?”

“Can I ride it?” Max demands.

“The bike?”

“Hell yes the bike! Can I ride it or not?”

David hesitates, glancing away and worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “I—I don’t know, Max. It can be pretty dangerous, and we don’t have any gear for you, and with your arm the way it is, it’s just not—”

“David.” Max crosses quickly to him, latching onto David’s shirt and hauling himself up by handfuls. Climbing David is like climbing a particularly wiggly tree. He stops when they’re face to face, planting his feet in David’s stomach and hanging onto the front of his shirt. David blinks at him. “David. Listen to me. I _need_ this right now, David.”

David holds up a finger between them. “I will _consider_ it,” he says. “But you certainly won’t be riding it while your arm is broken.”

“I will accept this.”

“Good!” David beams at him, then hooks his hands beneath Max’s armpits to pry him off and set him back down. “Now, let’s go see upstairs. I set up some basic furniture in your room, but if you want to rearrange it, we can—and we’ll buy some more things this afternoon to make it homey. I wasn’t quite sure what you wanted or needed, so I thought you could go with me. Sound good?”

“Good is a stretch, but let’s go.”

The stairs sit at the far end of the living room, and David takes them two at a time, gifted with damnably long legs and an unfortunate amount of excitement. Max follows more sedately, hitching his backpack to rest more comfortably over his shoulders. The stairway opens up into a wider hallway upstairs, and two doors sit on each side of the hall. 

“There are the bedrooms,” David says, gesturing to the pair of doors that face each other at the end of the hall. Next, he gestures to the doors nearer to them. “This one is the bathroom, and that one is a spare room. We’ll figure out something to do with it. I’m thinking a storage room, but we, uh, really don’t have that much stuff.”

“I noticed,” Max says, wry. That guilty snare flares to life in his chest again when he sees David wince. “Come on, it’s not like it matters. I like it better with less stuff, anyway.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Less chance of me tripping and stabbing myself on a morphine mainline.”

David’s face does something in the realm of horrified, and Max snorts and heads for the bedroom on the right. He pushes the door open, setting his backpack down against the wall and glancing over his new domain. A twin bed sits against the wall adjacent to the door, underneath one of the room’s two windows. Beside it, there’s a small end table with a lamp, a book, and an alarm clock. A wooden desk sits against the far wall, facing the second window. The wall across from the bed dips into a shallow closet, and a short dresser sits in the bottom of it. In the corner, between the desk and the closet, there’s a big blue beanbag. 

“So?” David asks hopefully. “Do you like it?”

When Max turns to face him, he’s wringing his hands and smiling just a little too wide. He’s scared, Max realizes. 

Well, shit. 

“Yeah.” Max rubs the back of his neck. “It’s good, and, uh—thanks. For getting it set up so quickly and everything, I mean, I know it was probably a huge pain in the ass.”

David’s smile gets a little less wide and a little more real. “You’re welcome, Max.” His voice is disgustingly warm, and Max grimaces. “This is as much your home as it is mine.”

 _Hardly,_ Max wants to say. _Hardly. It was you who worked your ass off to pay for it, it’s you who holds the deed, it was you who moved all the furniture in a few measly days, it was you who gave up your old apartment, it was you who invited some dumbass brat in to leech off of you. This is_ your _home, David, and I’m the guest you only think you want._

“God,” he says, instead. “Don’t be such a fucking sap.”

“Language,” David chastises, on what Max is coming to believe is an automatic reflex. “Do you want to see the other rooms?”

Max lets David show him the upstairs bathroom, the spare room, and David’s own bedroom—which is, Max realizes, set up exactly like his is. Of course, it looks much more lived-in than Max’s own. It has actual blankets, for starters, as well as a multitude of worn knick-knacks, a small bookcase, and a patched armchair in place of a beanbag. His guitar case sits propped against the wall, and a copy of _The Old Farmer’s Almanac_ adorns on his bedside table. It smells like cologne. That’s different enough from Papa’s scent that it’s comforting. 

Their tour completed, David turns to him and says, “If you want to put your stuff away in your room, feel free to. We can leave around noon, go grab some lunch, and then go shopping. Sound good?”

It doesn’t sound awful, so Max agrees, and he retreats to his room. He shuts the door behind him and practically collapses onto his bed once he’s finally alone. Holy _fuck._ He is so tired of people. He knows he’s damned lucky that he found the only pushover for miles around with enough relentless optimism to take in a useless punk like himself, but David has always been a little bit _much_ for Max. Besides, he’s used to being left alone for hours at a time—it’s overwhelming to have so many adults around so much of the time now, always jostling for his attention or trying to do something with him. 

After two weeks, he’s fucking _exhausted._

Groaning, Max sits up and reaches for his backpack. He pulls Mr. Honeynuts out, hugging the bear close and inhaling his familiar cigarette-perfume smell. “Well,” he mumbles, fiddling with one of Mr. Honeynuts’ little ears. “Here we are. For a little while, anyway.”

Mr. Honeynuts looks hopefully at him.

“You know we can’t stay here forever,” Max scolds lightly. Better that they don’t get their hopes up. His ears ring with David’s declaration, that stormy night: _I want you._ His heart clenches. “David’s a good guy, but this is foster care. What are the chances we get to stay with him for a year, let alone for _forever?_ Besides, I’ll be eighteen eventually, and then we’ll have to move out. That’s just life.”

Mr. Honeynuts looks _crushed._

“Hey, come on, don’t be that way. I’ll always take care of you, no matter what happens.” Max hugs him tightly, squeezing his eyes shut. “I want you.”

...his heart hurts.

He takes a deep, wobbly breath and sets Mr. Honeynuts down gently on the mattress. That’s enough of that. He’s _ten._ He doesn’t need to sit around and talk to stuffed animals for hours anymore. He’s fully aware Mr. Honeynuts is inanimate and non-sapient and absolutely fucking useless, but—well, call him sentimental, just this once. He loves his stupid bear.

Once Mr. Honeynuts is comfortable, Max begins to unpack his things. Fortunately, he doesn’t have much, so it’s a quick process. He crams his boxers and socks into the dresser, then goes to the trouble of hanging his shirts and pants up on the hangers in the closet. If he doesn’t, he fears David will assume he’s a miscreant living off of a single set of clothes and buy him a shit-ton of unnecessary stuff. 

After that, he snags his toothbrush, toothpaste, and hairbrush. He carries them to the upstairs bathroom, poking around a little more thoroughly than he did when David was watching. The sink has two drawers beneath it, as well as a large cabinet. On the left-hand side, the drawer houses a green toothbrush, floss, mint toothpaste, and a hairbrush with bright auburn hair stuck in it. Definitely not his drawer. Max slides it shut and opens the right-hand drawer, instead. There’s a green sticky note on top.

_Hey there, Max! This is your bathroom drawer—I got you some basic necessities, but you don’t have to use anything you don’t need. There’s also some stuff down on the right-hand side of the cabinet for you. Feel free to rearrange! :)_

God, he’s such a dork. Max gently removes the sticky note, setting it aside. Underneath the note, there’s a bright red toothbrush (with a dragon on it—Max thinks that’s actually pretty cool), a tube of cinnamon toothpaste, more floss, and a new hairbrush to match his toothbrush. There are _two_ dragons on the hairbrush. Max tosses his old toothbrush and hairbrush into the wastebasket, then kneels to open the cabinet. On the left-hand side are David’s soaps, shaving kit, deodorant, and cologne. On the right-hand side are more bottles of soap, aaaand that’s about it. Fair, Max supposes, since he isn’t a hairy stinky adult yet. In the middle of the cabinet, there’s a stack of towels and washcloths, as well as a pack of extra toilet paper, a bottle of spray-on sunscreen, and a set of nail clippers.

All in all, it’s horrifically well-stocked, compared to Max’s usual. 

Exploration complete, Max backtracks out of the bathroom and returns to his room. He flops back onto the mattress, but the book on his end table catches his eye. _Children of the Corn,_ by Stephen King—huh. Had David seen him reading King at the Carpenters’ house? It’s exactly the sort of story Max had expected him to disapprove of, blood and gore and horror. Maybe he doesn’t know that. Max certainly isn’t going to tell him.

A quick glance at the alarm clock tells him that it’s almost eleven-thirty. He still has half an hour of free time to savor, so he rolls out of bed and heads for the desk. The slender drawer beneath the desktop houses a few pencils, a pack of colored gel pens, a set of colored pencils, and a notebook. The shelves below the drawer are empty, as is the corkboard next to the window, save for a single picture pinned up in the corner. He stretches up to see it and realizes that it’s their camp picture. 

The campers and counselors—and, yes, the quartermaster—had taken a group photo together the day before camp ended, all of them clustering together in front of the lake and grinning (or, in Max’s case, scowling) at the camera as David rushed to set a timer. Max gently takes the picture, rubbing his thumb across the glossy surface. Nikki and Neil pose next to him. Nikki’s giving him bunny ears, and Neil is in the middle of smirking at the pair of them. A smile tugs at the corners of Max’s mouth, and he gently pins the photo back up. He’s already making plans to steal David’s phone so he can talk to them. David (unlike his parents) doesn’t have the guts to slap him or starve him for stealing, and Max plans to take full advantage of that fact.

At twelve, Max tromps downstairs and finds David in the living room watching a nature documentary. “Hey,” David says, glancing over when he hears Max’s footsteps. He’s smiling, as per usual. “You about ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome! Let me just put my shoes on and I’ll be ready.”

Max waits on the porch steps, propping his chin in his hand and looking out over the front yard. A pair of blackbirds jump playfully around each other, cawing raucously. The dirt road in front of the house sits quiet and barren. Max doesn’t think he’s heard a single car on it the entire time he’s been here, and the silence is unnerving. There are no engines purring, no horns honking, no people shouting or campers running amuck. There’s only the soft whistle of the breeze through the leaves and the birds chattering overhead.

Then, of course, there’s David. “Alrighty, I’m ready now,” he says, breaking the silence as he trots down the porch steps and heads for his truck. “Where would you like to eat?”

Max climbs into the truck’s back seat. It’s clean and uncrowded, and it smells like dust and cologne. He runs his uncast hand over the gray cloth lining the interior, then leans his head against the window. “I don’t care. Wherever.”

Rather than push him, David says, “Okie dokie. I’ll pick. Seatbelt on, please.”

Max yanks his seatbelt on, then resumes his window-leaning as they drive into town. They pass by a handful of small, run-down businesses Max recognizes from his brief escapade into town during camp. The restaurant they pull into for lunch, however, is much more familiar. David offers him a small smile in the rearview mirror.

“Does pizza sound good?”

“You’re too sentimental,” Max says, but pizza does sound good. It sounds really good, actually. Once David parks, Max slips back out of the truck and glances up at the front of Sleepy Peak Pizza Bros’ diner. David lets him linger for a moment, then leads the way forward. As they enter, Max tugs his sleeve and says, “I want pepperoni, and I’m picking the booth.”

Having established that, Max leaves David to order their food and slides into a booth by the windows. He gazes out the window, watching as a few cars trickle by on the road outside. The sky above them shines pristinely blue, the sun scorching the cracked asphalt below. Max can’t wait until autumn. He exhales wearily, letting his eyes shut for a brief moment as the sunshine warms his skin.

“Soup’s on,” David says, sliding the pizza onto their table with a clatter. Max’s eyes snap open. “I mean, I know it’s not soup, but it’s a figure of speech and I just—you know actually that wasn’t a great figure of speech, now that I think about it, and I—”

“David.” Max grabs a slice of pizza. “I get it. Shut up and eat.”

The two of them chow down on their pizza. Max eats in focused silence, but David wants a conversation—of course he does. 

“That’s a pretty cool cast.”

“It sucks.”

“Well, I mean, I can’t imagine it’s any fun to have on, but it looks neat. Who signed it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does. If you let them sign it, they had to mean something to you, right?”

“If you want to sign it, just sign it,” Max says, sighing heavily. “Don’t beat around the bush. You suck at it, anyway.”

“Really?” David’s eyes shine.

“Yeah. You _really_ suck at it. You’re one of the worst I’ve ever seen, actually.”

“But about the cast…?” David squirms hopefully in his seat, clearly unfazed by the insult. 

Max sighs a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, really about the cast too, David.”

David doesn’t even bother waiting until the pizza’s gone. Instead, he borrows the cashier’s nearest Sharpie and scrawls his name across Max’s forearm, signing it with a little smiley face at the end, just like always. Max rolls his eyes, but he has to admit (even if only to himself) that he’s glad David even wanted to sign his stupid cast. 

“You should get Gwen to sign it, too,” David declares, once he’s capped and returned the Sharpie. “You should get all your friends to sign it.”

Max peels the pepperoni off of his second slice of pizza, tearing them into pieces before eating them. “What friends? I don’t _have_ any.”

“You have Nikki and Neil, and all the other campers, and—”

“Yeah, and I’ll never see any of them again,” Max says, his voice chilling. “It would be really great if you could not rub that in my face, dipshit.”

David’s mouth twists. “Oh. Max…”

“It doesn’t matter. I always knew it was going to happen.” He pushes his half-eaten pizza away from him. “I’m full.”

“Don’t you remember what they told you when we thought Camp Campbell was going to be shut down?”

“‘We’ll always be friends,’” Max says, a nasty, mocking twist in his voice that even _he_ knows is uncalled for. “But what the hell does that mean? I’ll never see them again, we’ll never get to hang out, we’ll never even get to _talk._ They’re not friends, they’re just a memory that makes me feel like _shit._ They’re—”

David slides his phone across the table. Max falls silent, staring at it.

“The passcode hasn’t changed since the last time you took it,” David says encouragingly. “The three of you exchanged numbers, didn’t you? Why don’t you give them a call when we get back home? They don’t live too far away; I’m sure we could arrange a visit for you.”

Max reaches forward, pulling David’s phone towards himself. He offers David a wary, uncertain look as he tucks the phone into his pocket. In return, David gives him a warm smile. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “Really.”

“Thanks,” Max mutters sullenly, and he hates himself just a little bit more because he _knows_ he’s acting like an ungrateful brat and he has no idea how to stop. 

“Are you going to finish your pizza?”

“No.”

“That’s alright—you ate quite a bit. What do you say we get a move on? We’ve got a lot of shopping to do!”

The two of them load back into the truck, and David drives them to the nearest shopping center while Max slaughters skeletons in Minecraft on his phone. Shopping takes for-fucking- _ever._ David buys more groceries, which Max appreciates, because he sort of likes to eat at least once a day. After that, David is all about buying _Max_ things.

“I don’t need anything,” Max insists. “I have enough to survive for a while, and you’re a poor-ass kindergarten teacher living in a poor-ass town and _no,_ your first fostering check has not come in yet because I saw the schedule when you were talking to Mrs. Casper.”

“Fourth grade,” David says.

Max blinks. “What.”

“I’m a fourth grade teacher, actually—and _you_ don’t need to be worrying about my finances,” David says firmly. “I know how to manage my money, and I’ve lived on far tighter budgets than this. I can’t buy you many toys or books or games right now, that’s true, but I can get you a few things to make you more comfortable. At the very least, you need blankets and sheets and pillows and things for school.”

“...school?”

“That’s right.” David brightens, clasping his hands in front of his chest. “We’re enrolling you tomorrow, and you’ll start Monday.”

 _“Fuck_ that.”

“Language, Max. Now, I know you probably like your backpack, and that’s perfectly fine! You can keep it. But for school, I’d like to get you something a little less, uh, worn-out. Why don’t we start there?”

Max groans, dragging his feet as he follows David to the school supplies section. He doesn’t _want_ to go to school. That’s not fair. That’s not fair, right? He just got out of the hospital, ripped away from his family, and shoved into a house with the human incarnation of sunshine. _Surely_ he shouldn’t be required to go to school yet? He’s traumatized or something! He tells all of this to David, who, of fucking course, insists school is something to look forward to. 

“It’ll be fun! You’ll get to get out of the house and away from me, you’ll learn things and do lots of neat activities, and you’ll make a bunch of new friends. It’ll be good for you.” David pauses, then adds, “Also it’s legally required.”

“Uuuuuugh.”

“Hey, come on. Look, look at this backpack.” David points enthusiastically to a red Paw Patrol backpack was definitely designed with preschoolers in mind. “This is pretty cool, huh?”

Max yanks a navy blue backpack off of the shelf and shoves it into the cart. While they’re in the school section, they also snag a pencil bag, several mechanical pencils, highlighters, a calculator, notebooks, binders, markers, and glue. Max’s stomach bubbles with anxiety at the thought of this school year. David’s going to be so fucking disappointed in him, he can already tell. Max doesn’t think he’s gotten above a C in any class since, like, the first grade, when teachers were throwing out As just for showing up and scribbling on a piece of paper.

Their next stop is the bedding aisle—a vast improvement over the school section—where Max selects sheets and pillow cases with red polka dots on them, along with a checkered blue comforter. David buys him a bright red fleece blanket, too, “Just in case it gets chilly during the winter!” 

They check out after that—thank _god—_ and load all of their purchases into the truck’s bed. “Just one more stop,” David says, dusting his hands together once all of the bags have been loaded. “There’s a clothing bank for foster families downtown—we can grab you some new clothes there.”

Max, tired and stressed and ready to go home and call his friends already, balks. “I have plenty of clothes.”

“I know,” David soothes, “but you could use some more. Those sneakers aren’t going to last you very much longer.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Just a _little_ longer, I promise.”

Max grinds his teeth. “No.”

“Max…”

“I’m fucking _tired,”_ Max bites out. “I don’t want to go to another _shitty_ store to buy more _shitty_ things with your _shitty_ money so I can feel completely _shitty_ about how much me and my _shitty_ needs are costing you and—”

“Hey, hey hey hey.” David crouches in front of him, his smile finally, _finally_ smoothing into something more serious. Max expects to be scolded for swearing, at the very least, if not for backtalking so fucking much. Instead, David says, “I’m sorry, Max. I know this is a stressful situation for you, and you must be exhausted. Tell you what, we can go clothes shopping another day, okay?”

Max stares at him. “...wait, seriously?”

“Of course. If you’re tired and stressed, I’m not going to make you do something we don’t _have_ to do,” David says. “That’d be silly.”

Max stares some more.

“I really appreciate that you told me how you were feeling,” David continues, “although I’ll admit it could have been done more politely. What do you say we head home, put our groceries up, and relax for a couple of hours?”

Max manages to nod, although the bafflement that’s settled in his chest isn’t going anywhere for quite some time. He supposes he really shouldn’t be that surprised—David proves over and over again that’s he’s not like other adults. Max should know better than to expect a reasonable reaction from him. He clambers back into the truck, fiddling aimlessly with David’s phone as they drive home.

Once they get home, Max helps David unload all of their groceries, then lugs his things up to his room. He heads back down the stairs to help David put away their food, but David waves him away. “No, go on,” he says, grinning. “Go talk to Nikki and Neil already. I’ve got this.”

Max doesn’t wait for him to change his mind. He scrambles back upstairs, skidding into his room and lunging for his old backpack. He tugs out the scrap of paper with everyone’s numbers on it, quickly dialing Nikki’s and Neil’s. Party-fucking- _line,_ baby! He flops back onto his mattress, chewing his lip anxiously as the phone rings. Will they be mad at him for not speaking with them in so long? What will he tell them? Should he tell them anything or fish around for a believable excuse? Will they even answer? The phone sure has been ringing for a—

“Hello?” a nasally voice asks over the line—Max only _barely_ recognizes it as Neil’s father.

“Oh, uh—hi,” Max says, sitting up and reaching for Mr. Honeynuts. “This is Max Deshpande. I’m friends with Neil. Is he around?”

“Well hi there, Max! He sure is. Let me just grab him for you. I think he’s upstairs working on his—”

The line clicks again. “Hey sugar, who’s this?” a sultry, feminine voice asks. 

_“Candy?”_

“Carl?” Candy’s voice jumps up an octave, and Max winces. Shit. It just figures he’d be the one to set his best friends’ parents up on an accidental phone date. “Is that you, honey? What in the world you callin’ for?”

“Oh, w-well you see—”

Max hastily jumps in—he does _not_ want to be privy to this conversation, thanks. “That’s my fault,” Max says briskly. “I just want to talk to Nikki and Neil.”

“And who would you be, little man?” Candy asks.

“Max Desphande.”

“Max, okay. And how do you know my Nicolette, now?”

Max’s brows furrow. “Seriously? I’m _Max._ Nikki and I were best friends at camp for, like, three months?”

“You know I just cannot keep up with that girl’s friends, she goes through ‘em so fast,” Candy says, laughing, and a bolt of anger tears through Max’s chest. He grinds his teeth down on it. “Real sociable, her. Well, I guess I’d better let you two talk. Carl, now, I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to call back later. I missed you somethin’ fierce.”

Carl gulps audibly. “I—I, yes, I just may have to—”

 _“Please_ god spare me the flirting,” Max says, dragging his hand down his face. 

Candy giggles. “Alright, alright. Nikki! Phone’s for you, girlie, get yourself over here. Bye, Max. _Byeee,_ Carl.”

“B-bye—oh, and here’s, uh, Neil—Neil, it’s your little camp friends, come on now. You can finish that sciencey stuff later, I’m sure it won’t be sprouting legs anytime soon. Er...will it?”

For a moment, the phone crackles with blurry silence as the phones are traded off. Nikki speaks first (it sounds like Neil is still arguing with his dad about time-sensitive chemical reactions). “Neil?” Nikki says. “I thought we weren’t calling until Thursday.”

“Sorry,” Max says, a smirk flitting across his face. “I guess I didn’t get the memo.”

 _“Max!”_ Nikki shrieks, and Max yanks the phone away from his face as his smirk blooms into a full-blown grin. God, he missed them both. “Max oh my god it’s you it’s really you! We thought you were _dead!”_

“If only I should be so lucky,” Max says wistfully.

“Woah, holy—Max?!” Neil exclaims as he finally abandons his experiment. “What the _fuck,_ man? We’ve been worried sick!”

“I know, I know. I told you guys my mom doesn’t let me use her phone very often,” Max says, wincing. “I swear I wasn’t ignoring you. But, uh. I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“That’s okay! I’m so happy you’re alive that I’m not even going to try to stay mad at you,” Nikki says.

“I’m going to stay mad at you for a few minutes,” Neil warns.

Max snorts. “Cuts me deep, Neil, that really does.”

“Yeah, Neil, you big jerky jerkface,” Nikki says. “Our dear friend Max is back from the dead and you’re going to hold a _grudge.”_

“Really,” Max agrees. “I mean, even for you, that’s pretty low.”

“Super low.”

“You’re crawling on the ground, Neil. You’re with the worms.”

“I’m going to say something equally clever and demeaning soon,” Nikki adds. 

“Alright, alright! Max, you’re forgiven. Jesus, I forgot how wonderful it felt to be ganged up on,” Neil says, his voice dry. 

“And _I_ forgot how wonderful it feels to gang up on you.” Max sighs in pure contentment. “I missed that.”

“I missed _you,_ Max,” Nikki says, and Max’s heart does something warm and fuzzy at the earnest sound of her voice. His throat tightens.

“So did I,” Neil agrees. “We were seriously worried you’d fallen off of the face of the planet or something. What the hell happened?”

Max hesitates, but—fuck, these are his best friends. If he can’t talk to them, who _can_ he talk to? He’s over trying to get through life on his own, and they were the ones who showed him he didn’t need to—so he takes a deep breath, and he tries to trust. “It’s—man, it’s a long story. I guess the part that matters is that I’m in foster care now.”

“You’re _what?!”_ Nikki and Neil shout in unison. 

“What do you _mean_ foster care?” Neil starts.

“Jeez, I remember that was no fun,” Nikki says, her voice overlapping his.

“What happened? Dude, did your parents hurt you? Did—”

“How long are you in for? Do we have a time limit on the phone?”

“—they do something bad to you? Do I need to go kick somebody’s ass?”

“Oh, yeah, we _should_ kick their asses! Where do they live?”

“I’ll slit their fucking throats, Max.”

“And I’ll bite their faces off! Let me at ‘em, let me at ‘em!”

“Just give us the word. You know we’ve got your back.”

“Hm,” Max says, their enthusiasm making him grin at the ceiling again. In the safety and solitude of his room, he lets the smile linger. “Tempting, very tempting—but no, guys, seriously. It’s okay. It’s not a big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal,” Nikki protests. “Foster care _sucks.”_

“Wait, why were _you_ in foster care?” Neil asks, his voice twisting with concern.

Max scoffs and says, “Because her mom’s a self-absorbed, neglectful piece of shit, duh. Keep up.”

“My mom’s gotten better!”

“If that’s _better,_ than I’d hate to see what _bad_ was,” Max says peevishly. “You deserve way more than her, Nik, seriously. I’m sorry you have to put up with that shit.”

“You’re changing the subject,” Nikki points out. 

“I’m following an important line of conversation. Must _everything_ be a manipulative ploy to further my own agenda?”

“Yes,” Nikki and Neil say simultaneously.

Max snorts. “Man, you guys have me all figured out, huh?”

“We’re fluent in Maxism, yes,” Neil agrees. “So what’s the deal? What happened with your parents? I mean, come on, we knew they were shit, but— _foster care?”_

“They were still shit. Nothing changed on their end.” Max drapes his cast arm over his eyes, sighing softly. “I guess I just got sick of it.”

“Woah, you turned yourself in?” Nikki asks.

“Kinda.”

“Kinda? The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Neil demands, and Max can picture him flailing. 

“Don’t laugh,” Max says. “You can’t laugh.”

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Nikki says eagerly.

“I...called David,” Max admits. As expected, Nikki and Neil—after a moment of stunned silence—burst into laughter. “Oh, shut up! He’s an idiot, but that was _kind of_ the whole point. Who the fuck else would drive hours just to pick up some stupid kid because dear old daddy hit him a little too hard?”

Neil and Nikki fall silent almost immediately, and Max cringes. 

“Shit, don’t—it really wasn’t that bad,” Max says. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“He _hit_ you?” Neil’s voice is tightly laced with fury. “That fucking _asshole—_ cyanide’s too good for him.”

Nikki asks, her voice unusually quiet, “Max? Are you...okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, really. I’ve just got a dumb broken arm.”

“Holy _shit,_ he broke your arm?! That motherfucker, I’ll—why, I oughta—I think I have some fluoroantimonic acid around here somewhere, I’d just need another container for it—”

“Neil—Neil, dude, chill,” Max says. “I have no idea what fluoroantimonic acid is, but it definitely sounds like something we should use for a scheme better than dumb revenge. I’m _fine._ Besides, my arm’s basically a club now. I can knock people unconscious. I’m gonna get to the top of the school food chain _so fast.”_

“I’m sorry,” Nikki says. Her voice cracks.

Alarm flares through Max. Nikki should never sound that sad, _never._ “What? Why? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry your dad broke your arm. That’s really—that’s—” She swallows hard. 

“I mean, it was kind of my fault. I bit him.”

“You _bit_ him,” Neil whispers. “Of course you did.”

“Only after he tried to strangle David,” Max snaps. “Come on, I couldn’t let the dumbass get hurt. He’s a giant wuss. _Somebody’s_ gotta look out for him.”

“Tried to strangle…” Neil’s whisper trails off into disbelief.

“Is David okay?” Nikki demands. “Is he—?”

“He’s okay,” Max assures them both. “He’s been as dandy and painfully chipper as ever. If he has brain damage, it’s not noticeable beyond what he already had.”

“Wait.” Suspicion creeps into Neil’s voice. “He’s _been_ as dandy and painfully chipper? Max, have you been with him this whole time?”

“See, now, that’s the other thing.” Max studies his fingers nervously, picking at a loose hangnails. It tears, and blood beads up in its wake. “David’s kind of my foster parent right now.”

For a moment, dead silence. Then the two of them explode into noise, clamoring over each other so wildly Max can’t be bothered to understand them. Instead, he licks the blood off of his finger and waits for them to quit tripping over their own words. When they realize he’s not responding, they manage to shout themselves into some semblance of order.

“David?” Neil demands. _“Our_ David?”

“Our David, yeah.”

“He’s your _dad_ now?”

Max snorts. “Dude, no way. He’s just fostering me for a little while.”

“For how long?” Nikki asks. “Are they sending you back to your parents?”

“Well, both of ‘em are in prison right now, so I doubt I’m going anywhere for quite a while,” Max says, as breezily as he can—which is pretty damn breezily, given that he makes a living off of nurturing apathy and not a thing else. “My social worker thinks my mama might be able to take me back eventually, though.”

“But not your dad?” Neil demands. “If you go back to your dad I’ll kidnap you myself.”

“Not my dad, I don’t think. There’s gonna be a trial or something at some point? I dunno, I sort of stopped listening after a while,” Max says, waving a hand.

“Max, that’s _important information,”_ Neil scolds.

“I know, but listen, Mrs. Casper’s voice is _so boring._ I don’t think you understand. She talks to me like I’m three and about to throw myself off of the nearest cliff.”

Nikki asks, “Do you wanna go back?”

“Mm.” Max sits up, leaning against the wall and fiddling with Mr. Honeynuts’ paws. “I dunno. I haven’t thought about it.”

“You’re going to have to think about it at some point, you know,” Nikki says.

“What, because it matters? Social services aren’t going to listen to what _I_ want. If my mama wants me and proves she can take care of me, than she gets me, no questions asked. My opinion doesn’t matter. I’m ten, which is synonymous for _dumb and unfortunately talkative property_ as far as the courts are concerned.”

“Max…” Nikki tries, but Max cuts her off.

“Can we not talk about this anymore?” he asks. “Just for a few minutes, can we talk about something normal?”

“Like what?” Nikki asks.

“Like whatever time-sensitive experiment I just ruined by calling Neil,” Max drawls, a shit-eating grin tugging at his face again.

“Oh, yeah!” Neil says, irritation bursting into his voice again. “About that! Max, seriously, I use extremely expensive chemicals in my work and you can’t just…”

Max gladly listens to Neil bitch at him—the ebb and flow of their conversation is a familiar balm to a now-strange world. Once Neil gets his bitching out of the way, they move onto other things. Max catches up on all the two of them have been doing since camp. They tell him about their schools, about their shitty classmates and their homework, about their parents and their after-school activities. Neil’s in an actual science club this year, and Nikki is trying to take up the art of keeping indoor plants alive.

When Max complains about his own school year starting soon, and he’s greeted with a distinct lack of sympathy, and he pretends to be pissed for all of two minutes. He’s just too _delighted_ to stay grumpy for long, which is something of a novelty for him—but he’s not going to shun it the way he might have a few months ago. Nikki goes on to tell him what Nerris, Ered, and Dolph have been up to—evidently she keeps up with them—while Neil briefs him on Space Kid, who had moved into his town and attends the same school as he does (albeit a grade lower).

The three of them talk for hours, although Max hardly notices the time passing. He only jerks out of their timeless moment when Neil mentions dinner being ready. When Max rolls over to look at his clock, the numbers glare back at him in bright red: 6:00 PM. 

“Shit,” he says. “Where’s the time go?”

“Thursdays at five,” Neil says. “Put it in your agenda. That’s when we do our weekly calls, and you’d _better_ be there this time.”

“And if I have to steal David’s phone to do it—well, that’s a sacrifice I’m very willing to make,” Max says with a wicked grin. “I’ll talk to you guys later. Oh, and good luck with your parents. I think I may have accidentally set them up for weird kinky phone sex later? Anyway—”

“Damnit, Max!” Neil shouts as Nikki cackles.

Max hangs up, tossing David’s phone to the side and sighing happily. Jesus, it’s nice to talk to them. He...hasn’t felt this calm in a while. He savors the warm, settled feeling in his chest while he can, curling up around Mr. Honeynuts and nuzzling into his tattered ears—but for once, the smell of cigarettes and perfume isn’t comforting. He wrinkles his nose. 

For several minutes, Max simply lays in bed and debates on going downstairs. He’s sure David will have dinner ready soon, but once he goes down there he’ll have to get rid of this sleepy-warm feeling he’s wrapped in and face reality again. David will crash into him with attention and positivity and energy, and while Max likes that sometimes (he’s loathe to admit it, but he’s got _some_ self-awareness), right now he just wants to be left alone.

That, at least, had been one thing his parents were good at.

At 6:16, Max’s stomach growls. He ignores it. He’s had quite a bit of practice doing such, and it isn’t hard. He reaches for _Children of the Corn_ and begins flipping through the pages, but he can’t quite concentrate on the words—nor does he feel inclined to. After a few minutes of browsing, he sets the book aside and reaches for David’s phone again. He’s got a Minecraft world to work on while the peace and quiet lasts.

The peace and quiet, as it turns out, lasts until 6:30.

Not even a minute later, he hears David’s footsteps on the stairs. They stop outside of Max’s room, and David raps his knuckles gently on the door. “Hey, Max? Dinner’s ready.”

“Okay,” Max says, raising his voice to be heard through the door. He mercilessly slaughters one of his Minecraft sheep and collects the little woolen cubes it leaves behind. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

David hesitates, then says, “Don’t wait too long. It might get cold.”

Max listens to his footsteps retreat down the stairs again. He drags himself back to his base in Minecraft, then saves and exits the game. He moves towards the door, then stops, shifting his weight uncertainly on his feet. Maybe he’ll wait just a little longer. Then David will have eaten his own dinner and moved on, and Max can scarf down whatever food he’s been given and bolt again. The alternative—sitting at a table for an awkward family dinner with _David,_ of all people—makes his stomach squirm with anxiety.

On the other hand, what if David comes looking for him again? What if he gets upset that Max isn’t listening and eating dinner on time? He wouldn’t _hit_ Max—he’s way too much of a pushover for that—but he could do worse. He could be _disappointed._ He could send Max back to Mrs. Casper. He could finally, _finally_ figure out that Max isn’t worth all the trouble. 

Fuck.

Max paces an anxious line from one side of his room to the other, suddenly feeling very caged. Whatever he’s going to decide, he has to do it soon. He doesn’t want to make David impatient—although he knows that’s awfully difficult to do, and not for lack of trying at camp. Getting David angry is a feat in and of itself, so Max probably shouldn’t be worrying _too_ much about it. God knows he never did before, and like hell is he gonna start tip-toeing around the man just because he’s currently controlling, you know, Max’s whole entire goddamn life. If David decides he doesn’t want him, then fuck it, fine! Neither does anybody else, so what’s new? It’s nothing Max can’t handle on his own, just like he’s _always done._

...but he doesn’t want to make David’s life harder, either. He thinks he’s done that enough, and David’s an idiot, but he’s a _good_ idiot. Max doesn’t want to fuck that up. There are few enough good things in this godforsaken world. It can’t bear to lose anymore (and neither, Max thinks, can he). 

With that resolution in mind, Max marches downstairs at 6:47. If David wants Max to eat dinner with him, fine—but if he expects pleasant small-talk, he’s got another thing coming.

Max rounds the corner to the dining room, then stumbles to a stop. David sits at the table with his head in his hands, and for the first time today, Max thinks, there isn’t a smile on his face. He studies his bowl of macaroni and cheese as though it holds the answers to all of the questions Max thought he was too foolish to ask. His shoulders sag. On the back of his neck, pressed in pale purples, Max sees his father’s fingerprints.

“David?”

David jumps, his eyes widening as he whirls around to look at Max. That smile, bright and painful, springs onto his face again. “Max! Hey, bud—mac ‘n cheese tonight. Here, let me just microwave them, I think they got a little chilly.”

Max slides into the chair across from David’s as David springs up, grabbing their bowls and popping them into the microwave. He fiddles with his cast, keeping his eyes on the table as the microwave hums. In front of him, there’s a full set of silverware, a bright green napkin, and a—and a glass of chocolate milk.

“How was your talk with Nikki and Neil?” David asks.

Maybe Max can indulge in a _little_ pleasant small-talk, just this once—just because it was Max’s papa who put a collar of bruises around David’s throat and a worthless child in his home to drag his shoulders down and let their macaroni grow cold. “It was good,” he says. “They’re both doing okay. Neil joined an actual science club, so he’s pretty excited to have glassware that’s, you know, made of actual glass and not some shitty pine.”

“It was oak,” David says automatically. Max arches an eyebrow at him, and he blinks. “But, uh—goodness, that’s fantastic! I’m so happy for him. He is one smart cookie.”

“Yeah. I mean, he’s pretty great to scheme with.”

“Aw, scheming! I bet you missed that. You guys are the dream scheme team,” David says, sliding their bowls back onto the table.

Max rolls his eyes, poking at his mac ‘n cheese. It’s clearly from a box, and there are still clumps of hideously orange cheese powder inside of it. Max carefully breaks them up with his fork, stirring them in before taking his first mouthful. Tastes like Kraft’s. 

“What about Nikki?” David asks, when the silence stretches too long to suit him. 

“Still rolling in the dirt, eating bugs, climbing trees—y’know, Nikki things.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” David’s smile hurts a little less to look at, this time. It’s softer at the edges—realer.

“Her mom pisses me off.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Max jabs a macaroni noodle aggressively, his fork clicking noisily against the bowl’s ceramic. “She sucks.”

“Max, that’s not a very nice thing to say.”

“Not everything that’s true is _nice,_ David. Nikki’s mom sucks major balls—figuratively _and_ literally.”

David takes a deep breath. “Right. What, um—what makes you say so?”

“She doesn’t know anything about Nikki. All she cares about is herself and shit that makes _her_ happy—like booze and bad selfies and money and whoring herself out. Like, hello, bitch, you have a child! Why the hell would you have a kid if you’re not going to take care of it?” Max jabs his fork angrily at David. “It’s fucking stupid and completely irresponsible and _no,_ it isn’t nice.”

David falls silent for a moment, stirring his macaroni aimlessly in his bowl. “You’re right,” he decides, after a moment. “That isn’t nice. I can see why you would find it particularly upsetting, since your own—”

“Do _not_ try to psychoanalyze this,” Max says. “Gwen’s got the psych degree, not you. Besides, I’m not mad just because this reminds me of my own mom. I’m mad because it’s fucking _shitty_ and I don’t want Nikki to deal with it.”

“You know, that’s one of the great things about you, Max.”

Max blinks. “What.”

“You always speak your mind, and you fight for what you think is right.” David smiles fondly at him. “I really admire that.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re a professional asskisser, you know that?” Max crams another forkful of macaroni into his mouth, chewing aggressively.

David pushes his bowl away from him, propping his chin in his hand as he waits for Max to finish. “I am sorry about Nikki,” he says, and Max’s shoulders relax slightly. “I’d like to talk to her and Candy, sometime. Maybe I can help.”

“You? What are _you_ gonna do?” Max snorts. “You wanna foster another kid? If so, we’re gonna need to move house again.”

“No, but I am taking these parenting classes now, so maybe I can pass along some of the advice.”

“The flaw in your argument is that you’re assuming Candy actually _wants_ to be a good mom,” Max points out, slouching back in his seat.

“The flaw in _your_ argument is that you’re assuming she doesn’t.”

“I don’t think that’s a flaw.”

“Do you think your mom wanted to be a good parent?”

“I think that _wanting_ to be something is pretty fucking useless when you never actually do anything to accomplish it.” Max stands up, grabbing his bowl and heading for the sink. “Actions are what matter, not _wishes_ and _wants_ and _would’ve should’ve could’ves._ Fuck that shit.”

David remains quiet as he scoops up his own bowl and follows Max to the sink. When he speaks, it’s to say, “Here, I’ll wash, you rinse.”

David scrubs melted cheese goo from their dishes, and Max rinses the suds off and sets them in the dishrack to dry. Once they’re done, they dry their hands off on a dishtowel and make their way into the living room. Max hesitates at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Do you really think all parents want to be good parents?” he asks.

David settles down on the living room couch, reaching for the remote. He offers Max a rather sad smile. “I know they don’t.”

Max nods. 

“But do _you_ really think that no parents actually want to be good?”

Max studies David carefully. “No,” he says. “I know a few who do.”

“Okay.” David pats the couch cushion beside him. “Do you want to watch something together, by chance?” 

“What, like _Days of Our Lives?”_ Max scoffs. “No thanks.”

“No, that’s Gwen’s thing, silly. We can watch whatever you want.”

Max considers it, wavering on his feet. Then he shakes his head. “Nah, not tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” David agrees. “Remember to shower and brush your teeth. We’ll have to be up by 7:00 so we can get to the school for your enrollment forms.”

Groaning, Max drags his feet the rest of the way upstairs. Once there, he finally makes his bed with his new sheets and blanket. He showers with his brand-new soaps and a ridiculously soft blue washcloth, then yanks on a pair of basketball shorts and a ratty t-shirt. He grimaces when he looks at his toothbrush—still, it _is_ a new toothbrush, and it _is_ kind of cool. He dabs toothpaste across it and scrubs his teeth, careful to avoid the achy tooth in the back of his mouth. His evening routine completed, he slips back into his room and collapses onto his bed.

For several hours after that, he plays on David’s phone, texting Nikki and Neil and building the goddamned best Minecraft castle he’s ever seen. He only sets the phone aside when it dies. His eyelids feel ridiculously heavy. If he listens, he can hear the cicadas and crickets chirping outside. It reminds him of camp. The numbers on his clock gleam back at him: 2:13. He curls up under his new comforter, burying his face against Mr. Honeynuts, and he tries to sleep.

He isn’t very successful, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaAAAAAAA thank you all so much again for all of the nice comments !!!! they mean a lot to mean and i love getting to know what u guys think !!!! :D


	7. stay on your turf, big man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: discussions of child abuse (physical and emotional) + neglect

David’s alarm goes off at 6:00 AM. His eyes snap open, and he flails until he whacks the OFF button and the crackling sound of Woodie Guthrie’s “Do Re Mi” cuts off sharply. He untangles himself from his blankets, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. A yawn cracks his jaw, and he shakes his head to rid himself of the vestiges of sleep. His hair flops wearily across his forehead. Then he takes a deep breath, and he springs out of bed and beams at the velveteen black sky outside of his window. A cheerful morning is a cheerful day!

He heads for the bathroom first, using the toilet and then hopping into the shower. He sings as he soaps up—although he does keep his voice quieter than usual, mindful of the ten-year-old sleeping just down the hall. After he rinses off, he towels himself dry and tugs on a pair of cargo shorts and a dark blue polo. One moment of uneasy contemplation later, he buttons the polo all the way up to hide what he can of the bruises around his neck. Then he brushes his teeth, combs his hair, puts on his deodorant and spritzes himself with cologne. Fresh and clean, he puffs his chest up in the mirror and flashes himself a smile. Perfect!

His morning ablutions done, he trots downstairs and glances at the clock on the wall: 6:32. He’ll wake Max at 7:00, so he still has time to whip up a quick breakfast. He wishes he knew more of what Max  _ liked,  _ but it seems as though all he has is an enormous list of dislikes—except, of course, for the chocolate milk! He knows it’s probably not healthy for Max to drink chocolate milk at  _ every  _ meal, but considering what he’s been through these past two weeks, David is willing to make an exception for the time being.

By 6:57, David has the table set with two plates of scrambled eggs, sliced strawberries, and toast. Next to his plate, there’s a glass of apple juice. Next to Max’s, a glass of chocolate milk. He bounds back upstairs, rapping his knuckles against Max’s bedroom door. “Good morning! Breakfast’s ready, so up and at ‘em, champ.”

Through the door, he hears Max groan. He decides that’s a good enough sign of consciousness and goes to pull a pair of sneakers on. As he heads for the stairs again, Max stumbles out of his bedroom with his fleece blanket draped around his shoulders. His curls press flat on one side of his head and bush wildly on the other, and heavy bags line the undersides of his half-lidded eyes. He offers David a deadly glare, then locks himself in the bathroom. All in all, a much better wake-up than David had anticipated.

He waits for Max at the table, sipping on his apple juice and listening to the weather on the TV. It sounds like it’s going to be a sunny day again. Maybe they can do something fun this afternoon, like hiking, or exploring their new backyard, or lining out plans for the treehouse. A smile flickers across his face as he contemplates all the new adventures the day holds, and his smile only grows when Max slouches into the seat across from him.

“The fuck,” Max says, “is this?”

“Eggs and strawberries and toast. Do you like that? I can find you something else if you want.”

Max pokes uncertainly at his eggs. They’re a little rubbery, David will admit, but he doesn’t think they’re re  _ quite  _ too terrible—and besides, he’s seen Max eat the quartermaster’s eggs before. These are a vast improvement. “I don’t usually eat this kind of breakfast when I’m at home.”

“What do you eat for breakfast?”

“Nothing, or cereal, or granola bars. Basic shit.” Max shrugs. “You really don’t have to go to all this extra effort.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I want to. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day and all that.”

Max grimaces, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth, chewing unenthusiastically, and asks, “So what fresh hell are you dragging me through today?”

“Well, school enrollment is first. I have to go fill out your papers so you can start on Monday, and I’ll give you a tour, too. We’re in the same building—isn’t that neat? I was hoping I could say hi to my class while we’re there, too, if you don’t mind. They’ve had a substitute for the past couple of days. I don’t want them to think I’ve forgotten them.”

“Hey, you’re running this shitshow,” Max says, jabbing a strawberry with his fork. “I’m just along for the ride. If you wanna play with a bunch of snot-nosed brats, who am I to stop you?”

David clicks his tongue. “Be nice.”

Max growls something under his breath. David’s glad he didn’t hear it.

“After that, I need to make a few appointments, and then we can grab lunch.”

“Appointments?” Max arches an eyebrow.

“Yep.” David finishes off his last bite of toast, washing it down with a gulp of juice. “I need a physical exam for my license, and you need one, too. I’ll call the doctor’s office this afternoon and see if can get appointments close to the same time. Then I need to call and schedule your first counseling session. Do you have a preference on timing for that?”

“...my  _ what,”  _ Max says, his voice falling flat.

“Your counseling session. Did—did Mrs. Casper not tell you about that?” David asks, but Max’s expression is answer aplenty. “Oh, jeez. I’m sorry. I thought you already knew. Since you’re coming from a background with so much abuse and neglect, CPS mandates that you see a therapist for a minimum of six months. I know maybe that’s scary, but—”

“It’s not scary, it’s  _ stupid,”  _ Max says, his grip tightening on his fork. “I don’t need therapy. I’m not crazy.”

“Of course you’re not crazy, Max. Therapy isn’t just for people who are—” David grimaces at the term. “—crazy. It’s for people who want to get their lives together, for people who have trouble with their habits, or even just for people who want to learn more about themselves. This therapist, she’ll be really good for you, you’ll see.”

Max scowls at his toast. “And if she’s  _ not?” _

“Then we’ll find someone who is,” David assures him. “If you really don’t like her, I promise I won’t make you stay with her. We’ll keep trying until we find someone you  _ do  _ like, but I can’t get you out of this—and I don’t think I want to.”

“You think I need some shrink to teach me how to be a good kid?” Max sneers. “Is that what this is? You want me to learn my  _ manners,  _ you want me to learn how to be quiet and obedient and—”

“No!” David says. His voice must be sharper than he means it to be, because Max’s eyes widen. He clears his throat, taking a deep breath and softening his words when he speaks again. “No. I don’t want to change who you are. You’re fantastic, Max. You’re smart, you’re witty, you’re willing to do whatever you need to achieve your goals, and you care so  _ much,  _ even if you don’t want to. Therapy isn’t going to change any of that.”

“Then what the fuck  _ is  _ it going to do?” Max demands, leaning forward. “If it doesn’t change anything about me, what’s the point?”

“It gives you the tools to change things about yourself  _ if you want to.  _ It gives you more control over your life and your relationships. It helps you understand how and why you feel the things that you do, and what you can do about those feelings. For you, specifically, Max, I—” David rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I hope that it helps you feel less stressed.”

“I’m not stressed, I’m  _ angry. _ ”

A sad smile flickers across David’s face. “Either way, I’d like for you to know how to manage your emotions when they come. I’d like you to learn how to trust other people. I want you to have the tools you need to lead a happy, healthy life, and I think therapy can help you do that.”

Max sits back in his seat, studying David carefully. David feels a little bit like a bug under magnifying glass—but around Max, that’s not unusual. “Hm,” Max decides, finally.

“Hm?”

“I’ll go. I mean, it’s not like I actually have a choice.” Max shrugs. “So you’re setting me up with a doctor and a shrink. Is there anything  _ else  _ I need to know about?”

David squints, mulling it over. “Nooo, I think that just about covers the things you’re required to do right now. Erm, if they find anything wrong at the physical, you’ll have to get that looked at, and you still have your appointments with Dr. Thorton for your arm, of course. We’ll probably have some court dates, but I think that’s still a month or two down the road.”

“Delightful,” Max says, propping his face in his hand.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s not any fun. But hey, you know what will be fun?” David springs up, gathering their dishes. “Seeing your new school! C’mon, go get some shoes on.”

As Max trudges back upstairs, David washes and puts away their dishes. The two of them load into the truck, and David drives them to Sleepy Peak Elementary School. Max hangs a few steps behind him as they enter the building, his shoulders hunched. He looks barren without his hoodie to huddle up in—David really does need to get him some new clothes, soon. 

“David, hey there,” Ms. McCanse greets him as he nears the office, smiling warmly. “Good morning. How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been just wonderful,” he says, returning her smile. 

“We’ve missed you around. What have you been up to?” She tsks her tongue. “Oh, I hope you weren’t sick.”

“No, no, healthy as ever. I’ve actually spent the last couple of days hanging out with this guy.” David hooks his thumb at Max, who scowls in Ms. McCanse’s direction. Ms. McCanse’s smile falters. “This is Max Deshpande, my foster son. I’m here to enroll him.”

Ms. McCanse’s mouth works silently for a moment before she manages to say, “I—well, of course. Let me grab the paperwork for you. Please, have a seat.”

David leads the way into the office, taking a seat at the desk. Max slumps into one of the chairs against the wall. When Ms. McCanse returns, she hands David a clipboard with a sheaf of papers on it. She busies herself as he fills it all out, although he doesn’t miss the way her eyes continue to dart suspiciously in Max’s direction. Max doesn’t seem to miss it, either. His shoulders hunch more each time, and he glares at his sneakers. 

David can’t take it anymore.

“Max is a super cool kid,” he blurts the next time Ms. McCanse passes him with an armful of folders. Max stiffens. Ms. McCanse arches an eyebrow.

“Well, I’m sure he is,” Ms. McCanse says. She doesn’t  _ sound  _ very sure. 

“He’s very bright—I’m excited to see how he grows this year,” David says, carefully signing his name at the bottom of Max’s enrollment papers. “He’s going to learn a lot. I bet Ms. Urig’s going to love having him in class.”

“Ms. Urig loves all of her students,” Ms. McCanse says tactfully, taking the papers from him. “Max is going to fit right in.”

David stands, and Max follows suit. Max doesn’t waste any time in slinking out of the office, and David scrambles after him once he’s said his hasty goodbyes to the office staff.

“You know you didn’t have to do that,” Max says bitterly.

“Do what?”

“Suck up to her for me. I don’t give a shit what she thinks.”

David makes an uncomfortable noise in the back of his throat. “She’s gonna love you, Max, you’ll see. Don’t worry about it.”

“I just told you I’m not worrying about it.”

“Well, that’s good! Um—here, come this way. I’ll show you where your homeroom is.”

David gives Max a brief tour of the school building, showing him to Ms. Urig’s classroom, the cafeteria, the playground, and the gym. Their last stop is David’s classroom in the fourth graders’ wing of the school. His door has been festooned with balloons and ribbons to celebrate the beginning of the academic year. If he listens closely, he can hear his substitute speaking to his class. He waits until she’s reached a pause (although Max scuffs his shoes with impatience) and then knocks merrily on the door.

“Mr. Bouchard, what a pleasant surprise,” the substitute says when she opens the door. “Are you back to work already?”

“Not quite yet—I just wanted to pop in and say hello to everyone.” With that, David pops his head through the door and beams at his gaggle of fourth graders. “Hello, everyone!”

The fourth graders’ shout their hellos back to him with varying levels of enthusiasm. Max shrinks away from the door. David glances back, looking hopefully at him.

“You wanna say hi, Max?” he asks.

Max’s glare is answer enough. David chuckles and turns back to his class, offering them a few encouraging words before ducking back out and allowing the substitute to resume her lesson. Max walks ahead of him on their way back to their truck, and David is thrilled to see he’s already got a grasp of the school’s layout. He taps his foot as he waits for David to unlock the truck’s doors, then clambers inside.

“Seatbelt,” David prompts. It worries him how often he has to remind Max to do that, but he—well, he really doubts Max’s own parents ever did. Max sighs heavily and yanks his seatbelt across his chest. “Thank you. What do you say we go to the park and you can play while I make some phone calls?”

“You’re kidding me, right? Parks were made for kids in, like, the 1900s when all people could do for entertainment was smoke, have sex, and go outside. Now we have phones.”

“Oh! My phone, that’s right. Do you still have it?”

Max reaches for his pocket, then pauses. “Shit. No, actually. It died last night, so it’s still in my room.”

“That’s alright. We’ll just go get it and you can play outside—there’s some neat stuff out there. The property stretches all the way back to the creek, if you want to explore.”

Max scowls, but David catches the faintest gleam of interest in his eyes before he glances away from the rearview mirror. Once home, David leads the way back up the stairs, twirling his keys around his finger. Max snags the phone from his room, bringing it to David. 

“Thanks,” David says, beaming at him. “Hey, c’mon, I’ll show you where I keep the charger so you can grab it if it ever dies while you’re on it.”

“You just leave your room unlocked?”

“Well, sure. I trust everybody in the house.”

“Man, you’re a bad judge of character.”

Max follows David into his room, and David indicates the phone charger plugged into his wall with a flourish. “There she is,” he says. He gestures to his top desk drawer, next. “If it’s not there, then it’ll be in this drawer.”

“‘kay,” Max says, but his eyes are on the photos that sprinkle David’s desk and walls. They linger on one of a red labrador with a wide, doggy grin. “What’s that?”

David lights up. Max is showing an interest in something! Max is showing an interest in  _ something David-related— _ oh, happy day! “That was my dog when I was a kid,” David says. “Her name was Cedar.”

“Goddamnit, of course it was.” Max points at the picture of David and his mother, next. “Who’s that?”

“That’s my mother and me when I was just about your age.”

“You look like a dork.”

A fond smile flickers across David’s face. “I haven’t changed much.”

“You can say that again.” Max’s eyes flick over the other photos—photos of David and Gwen, photos of David and Mr. Campbell, photos of David and Jasper, photos of each summer’s group of campers, photos of flowers and trees and glistening streams. “Daddy issues, huh?”

“What?”

“Your dad. I don’t see any weird old David lookalikes up here.”

“Oh, yeah.” David runs his hand through his hair, fluffing it. “I never met my dad.”

Max glances back at him. “Shit, sorry. That kind of sucks.”

“It’s alright. You can’t miss what you never had, right?” David grins. “Besides, I had Mr. Campbell to fill in!”

“God,” Max breathes. “It really could have be worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could have latched onto Mr. Campbell as a father figure instead. Maybe there is some mercy in this godforsaken world.”

“Yeah. I guess he really wasn’t the best choice, but—wait.” David’s eyes grow round. “Max. Does this mean you consider  _ me  _ as your father figure?”

“Jesus Christ. Shut up, David.”

“Oh,  _ Max—” _

Max storms out of the room while David dabs at the tears in his eyes. Once he’s collected himself—Max thinks he’s a father figure! er, possibly, anyway _ — _ he plugs his phone into the charger and takes a seat at his desk. As his phone begins to claw its way back to life, he hears the back door slide open. He pokes his head out of his window.

“Be careful!” he shouts cheerfully as Max steps into the backyard. “Stay on this side of the creek, don’t play near the road, and don’t get too close to the neighbors’ houses.”

Max flips him off. David decides to take this as an enthusiastic agreement.

Normally, David would be too nervous to let Max go anywhere on his own—at camp, the forest was far too dangerous. Here, though? Here, in little Sleepy Peak? Why, David knows all of their neighbors for at least three miles in every direction, and he’s known them since he was a teenager. The only danger Max is in is the danger of a warm, friendly welcome! The treeline surrounding the creek can hardly be considered a forest; the only animals he’s seen in it are deer, squirrels, and raccoons. Compared to the platypus, he thinks those are all very safe encounters. The creek itself is little more than a trickle of water in the summer, hardly deep enough to wade in, let alone to  _ drown  _ in. Max will be perfectly fine as long as he stays on their side of the creek, where David can still keep an eye on him.

...even so, it does make David a tad anxious, letting him go alone. He should hurry and make these appointments so Max isn’t wandering around for too long. He backs away from his window and drops into his desk chair again, then flips open his agenda, reaches for his phone, and starts calling. It takes him almost an hour to make all three appointments. Every few minutes, David glances out the window just to make sure Max hasn’t vanished or been hurt; he loses sight of him to the treeline, once or twice, but each time he’s quick to remerge and settle the sudden anxious cramp in David’s stomach. 

Once their appointments are made, David leaves his phone on the charger and starts on lunch. He makes turkey and cucumber sandwiches—simple and light, because the heavy press of summer heat doesn’t do much for his appetite. He pours two glasses of ice water to go with them, then calls for Max through the back door. Max enters the house several minutes later. There are grass stains on the knees of his jeans and something very alive and very squirmy in one clenched fist.

“Look,” he says, “at this cool shit I found.”

Max holds up a fat green bullfrog, his chest puffed out and a gleam of pride in his eyes. David’s eyes widen, and he makes a delighted noise and bends down to look more closely at the frog. “Oh, wow! Where’d you find that?”

“By the creek. There were a whole bunch of them, but this one is the coolest because it ate another frog whole and I got to watch.”

David reaches out, gently loosening Max’s fingers from their fierce grip around the frog’s midsection. The frog wheezes gratefully at him. “That is very cool,” David agrees. “I bet those are the frogs we hear outside all night.”

“What kind is it?”

“It’s a bullfrog. They’re very noisy, and they can get pretty big. How’d you manage to catch this guy?”

“I mean, after swallowing—and I repeat—a  _ whole other frog,  _ it wasn’t moving very fast. It was easy.”

If the mud smeared across Max’s cast and the grass stains on his clothes are anything to go by, it wasn’t quite that easy—but David’s not going to call him on that, not when he looks so pleased with himself. “That’s awesome,” he says, instead. “I’ve never been much good at frog-catching, myself. Do you want me to take a picture? You could send it to Nikki.”

“Holy shit, she’d be so  _ jealous.  _ Do it.”

So David snaps a picture of Max with a cocky smirk and a bullfrog. Once Max declares the picture satisfactory, David points him back outside. “Alright, go put it back outside where you found it, and then wash your hands—er, hand. Did you get your cast wet?”

“No, just muddy. I’ll wipe it off.” 

Max heads back outside to release his catch, and David quickly washes his own hands before taking a seat at the table. Max returns, scrubbing his uncast hand off before sliding into his seat and guzzling his water. Guilt flickers through David—darn it. He should have remembered to send Max out with a water bottle. Come to think of it, he needs to  _ buy  _ Max a water bottle so they don’t have to use the environmentally-unfriendly plastic horror that is a disposable bottle. He also needs to buy Max clothes, and new shoes, and toys, and—

“What is that? A cucumber? Why is there a cucumber on my turkey sandwich?”

David jolts out of his thoughts, blinking at Max. “Do you not like them? You can take them off. If you’d prefer something else, I can—”

“No, it’s good, it’s just weird.”

“It’s healthy.”

“Huh. Probably why it’s weird, then,” Max says, then snorts. David doesn’t particularly enjoy the implications of that statement. “My mama liked turkey and cheese.”

“I like turkey and cheese.”

“She liked ramen and ravioli and McDonald’s double cheeseburgers, too.”

“I like those.”

“Then why aren’t we eating them?”

“Well, we can, sometimes,” David says, crunching a cucumber slice in half with his teeth. “I wouldn’t mind that, especially if you like them. But those things aren’t very good for you, so we can’t have them all the time.”

“Am I seriously getting dietary advice from the man who let me eat Quartermaster’s food for three months?”

“Quartermaster’s food is wonderful,” David protests (albeit somewhat weakly).

“FDA regulations were created solely because of Quartermaster’s food.” Max chomps down on the last bite of his sandwich, then pushes his plate back. “Your predilection for seeing good in things where there is none is going to get you in trouble, if it hasn’t already.”

“Now, Max, that’s hurtful.”

“Nothing new there.” Max scoops his plate up and reaches for David’s too. “Come on. What else are we doing today?”

David hops up, rinsing the dishes free of suds once Max has scrubbed them off, then stacking them in the drying rack. “Well, there’s nothing we  _ have  _ to do, but would you feel up to going clothes shopping today?”

“Might as well,” Max says, which is about as close to an agreement as David thinks he’ll ever get.

“Fantastic! So we’ll do that, and then we can come back here and discuss some house rules together.”

Max arches an eyebrow at him. “House rules? Seriously?”

“Yes.” David sets his hands on his hips. “Rules and boundaries are important for healthy emotional development and a sense of security, so—”

“Citation?”

“What?”

“Your citation for that pretty little quote, what is it? Which parenting book did you yank that dumbass drivel out of?”

“... _ How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk  _ by Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish,” David mumbles, defeated.

“Kind of what I thought.” Max turns, settling his arms across his chest. “Listen, David.”

“I’m listening.”

“This is your house. I get that. You’re the  _ big boss man  _ or whatever. It must really boost your tiny ego. At camp I could do whatever I wanted, because what the hell were you gonna do about it, right? Now that I’m here, you control everything. Food, water, phone, sleep, shelter, it’s all up to you. You can do whatever you want to get to me to listen. Bet that makes you feel all kinds of powerful, right? You may as well be my own personal dictator.”

“No, I’m not. I—”

“That’s right, you’re not.” Max steps forward, jutting his chin up. Anger glitters in his pale green eyes. “You’re too much of a pussy to dictate anybody and we both know it. So do yourself a favor and stay on your turf,  _ big man.  _ I don’t want to make this hard for you, believe it or not. I don’t hate you, as weird as that is to say. You’re actually a pretty good person, even if you’re a little dense sometimes— _ most  _ times. Besides, I know you’ve done me a favor. I’m not an idiot.”

“You—you really think I’m a good person?”

“Don’t push your luck. I  _ also  _ think you’re a pussy and a moron, so it all kind of evens out.” Max shrugs, raising his hand and teeter-tottering it to emphasize his point. “Anyway, I’m not here to make you regret taking me in, although I can understand why you think that—but I’m actually not planning to destroy your house, or hurt you, or steal your shit, or run up your bills, or keep you up all night. So you don’t have to worry about that.”

“And I appreciate that very much, Max. Thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever. But if you think for one  _ second—”  _ Max leans forward, jabbing his finger at David. “—that I’m gonna let you bully me into doing shit I don’t wanna do, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m not your kid. I’m not even your camper anymore. We’re like roommates now, get it? We’re both gonna respect each other’s shit.”

“It sounds like maybe you have some rules for me, too.”

“No, I don’t have  _ rules.  _ I won’t fuck you over if you won’t fuck me over and that’s that. It’s basic respect, David. I’m not three. I don’t need a list of  _ dos and don’ts.  _ I’m smart enough to know what I should do and what I shouldn’t. I get why you maybe think that I  _ don’t,  _ given, uh—” Max hesitates, his mouth twisting. “—well, your entire experience with me prior to this point, but I’m not stupid. I can manage myself without you writing me a whole damn rulebook, so just chill, okay? We’re gonna be fine.”

David rocks back on his heels, uncertainty humming in his chest. “Sounds like you have this all figured out.”

“I do. Just—” Max reaches out, awkwardly patting his arm. David’s heart warms at the gesture, clumsy and uncertain comfort though it is. “Y’know. Stop worrying so much. I’m not here to make your life harder. So, uh. I’m gonna go grab your phone and then we can go to that clothing bank you’ve got such a hard-on for.”

David watches as Max heads back upstairs, chewing his bottom lip anxiously. That was not exactly how he wanted that conversation to go, but Max  _ did  _ have valid points. He’s extremely clever, and he knows right from wrong—although he doesn’t certainly doesn’t always  _ choose  _ right. But if he’s assuring David he will (or at least that he’ll try to), then should David really be that worried about hard-and-fast rules? Is that patronizing…? 

Dang, this parenting thing is complicated.

Sighing softly, David makes his way out to the truck. Max joins him a minute later, already locked into a game on David’s phone. They make the drive to the clothing bank, then unload and head inside. Max angles for the hoodies, first and foremost, and David follows on his heels, more than happy to let him lead. The hoodie Max selects, after several long moments of contemplation, is dark red with black sleeves and a black hood. He yanks it on immediately, rearranging his sling and nestling his uninjured hand into the pocket. His shoulders relax. 

After that, they gather several t-shirts, shorts, jeans, pajamas, boxers, and socks. David grabs him a pair of swimming trunks, despite Max’s insistence that he is literally never going to use them ever, no, like seriously David,  _ ever.  _ They also get him a blue parka and snowboots for the winter.

“You seriously think I’m gonna be here this long?” Max asks as he stomps around in the boots to test the fit. 

“Do you think you won’t be?”

“Instability is a trademark of the American foster care system.”

“Well.” David tugs a dark brown beanie over Max’s head when he stomps a few stomps too close. There are two small, rounded bear ears on the beanie. “Better safe than sorry. Besides, you can take them with you when you leave.”

Max plucks the beanie off of his head. “This is stupid,” he decides, but he tosses the beanie into the cart anyway. Two matching gloves follow suit (they have little pink pawprints on the palm!), along with a few pairs of winter socks. Their final stop is the shoe aisle, where Max snags a pair of red sneakers to match the ones he currently has on. At David’s prompting, he also gets a pair of black hightops and dark blue rainboots. Their shopping completed, David checks out and helps Max load their things into the bed of the truck. 

Once they get home, David offers to help Max put his clothes away, but he’s quickly shot down. “It’s my shit,” Max says. “Keep your grubby mountain-man hands off of it.”

“You got it,” David says, emphasizing his statement with a two-fingered salute. Max lugs his bags upstairs and doesn’t return. David flops out onto the couch, rubbing his face and reaching for his phone. He really wants to see what Gwen thinks about—

Aaaand Max still has his phone. 

David clicks his tongue anxiously against the backs of his teeth. This is going to be a problem. Should he buy Max his own phone? Would it get taken from him if he was sent back home—or worse, would it be used against him? Besides, is David even legally allowed to give Max his own phone, as a foster parent? More to the point, is it  _ good  _ for him to have unlimited access to a phone, especially now that his time is so unregulated? 

David doesn’t mind letting Max use his phone, not at all! Just...maybe not as much as he has been these past few days. That’s one of those rules he’d like to discuss, but Max isn’t going to make it easy, and David doesn’t know how to bring it up without making him feel belittled. The parenting books did not adequately address how to coax a belligerent, wickedly intelligent ten-year-old into accepting the structured household he’s clearly never had before.

...David thinks he might know who  _ could  _ address that, though, and he’s meeting with them on Monday. Come to think of it, he should probably let Max know about that. He rolls off of the couch and heads upstairs, rapping his knuckles against Max’s door. “Hey, Max?”

“What?” Max shouts over the blare of rock music coming from David’s phone speakers. 

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be busy Monday evening, so Gwen’s going to come and watch you for a couple of hours.”

For a moment, Max remains quiet. Then he scoffs and says, “Sick of me already?”

“What? No! No, that’s not why.” When Max doesn’t respond, David shifts his weight anxiously and says, “Can you open the door, please?”

Max yanks the door open, scowling up at him. 

“I’m not sick of you,” David says. “I’ve actually had a lot of fun these past two days. I know it hasn’t been easy, but you’ve been doing awesome. I really appreciate that you’ve gone shopping with me, and put up with all this weird social services bureaucracy without acting out, and helped me with dishes.”

Max’s scowl shifts into something more confused—and something painfully vulnerable. That expression doesn’t last long. Seconds later, Max’s scowl returns full-force, and he folds his arms across his chest. “I told you not to do that.”

“Do what?”

“That positive reinforcement shit. It’s not gonna work.”

A smile flickers across David’s face. “And I believe I told you you’d have to get used to it anyway.”

“God, why are you so  _ stubborn?” _

“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, but you deserve to know when you’ve done well. You’re—”

_ “Alright,  _ alright, enough.” Max huffs, wrinkling his face in disgust. “So where are you going on Monday that I can’t go?”

“I have fostering classes every Monday at 3:30 for the next few months,” David explains. “They’re required, if I want to keep you.”

Max’s frowns drops, for a moment. “Oh.”

“And I do want to keep you.”

“Okay.” Max scuffs the floor with his sneaker. “So Gwen’s picking me up from school I guess?”

“She sure will. She’ll bring you back here you so you two can hang out, watch movies, play games, do whatever you want.”

“When are the rest of our appointments?”

“Our doctor’s appointments are this Wednesday after school, and your first counseling appointment is next Tuesday.”

Max nods, then leans back and begins to shut the door.

“Uh, Max?”

“What?”

“Do you wanna come downstairs? Watch a movie, play a game?”

“No. I’m still putting my clothes up.” 

The door clicks shut. David winces—but hey, maybe next time! Persistence is key. Max will seek out company when he’s ready to, as long as he knows David will always be there. David heads back to his own room, lifting his guitar from its case and settling in with it. He begins to strum gently—and maybe he’s just imagining it, but he thinks he hears the rock music from Max’s room get a little quieter in response.


	8. detangling spray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: references to child abuse (physical and emotional) + child neglect

The weekend passes far, far too quickly in Max’s opinion; Monday slams into him with brutal force. When David wakes him up, chipper as ever, he buries his head under his pillow and groans. Holy shit, he  _ doesn’t  _ want to  _ do this.  _ Camp was bad enough, but at least he had friends there, and at least he didn’t have to sit still and listen to boring crap all day, and at least he knew the routine and knew what to expect from all of the adults and—

And  _ ugh. _

After a few minutes of self-indulgent wallowing, Max drags himself into the bathroom and gets ready for one terrible, awful, no-good day. He yanks his brush through his hair, wincing as it snags on his tangles, and forgoes brushing his teeth entirely. He dresses, pulling his new hoodie on last of all—it may not be as good as his old hoodie (rest in fucking peace), but hey, it’s something. His sling gets draped over his shoulder next, and he settles his right arm into it. When he slumps into his seat at the dining room table, David slides a plate of waffles towards him. That is way too much to eat on an anxious stomach, but he makes a show of poking at it anyway. The chocolate milk that goes with it makes it at least semi-worthwhile. 

“So,” David says, sitting down across from him and going to work on his own waffles, “are you excited?”

“No.”

“Not even a teensy-tiny little bit?”

“No.”

“Are you scared?”

“No.”

“Happy?”

“No.”

“Are you experiencing any emotions at all?”

“No.” Max can’t stop his mouth from quirking up at the question, and he thinks that was probably the whole point, because David lights up when he sees. “Let me guess, you’re excited to go play with your snotty rugrats again.”

“You know it! Oh, I’ve missed them so much. They’re a really great class.” David clasps his hands in front of him, sighing wistfully. “This is going to be a fantastic year, I can already tell. Today we’re starting to read  _ Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing  _ by Judy Blume. It’s a favorite every year.”

Max pities those damned fourth graders. (Except he doesn’t, not really, not at all. Actually, he’s...kind of jealous, now that he thinks about it, and  _ wow, _ he hates that.)

They finish their breakfast—well, David finishes his breakfast and Max finishes half of a waffle—and then clean their plates and load into the truck. Max slings his new backpack into the seat beside him, leans against the window, and broods for most of the drive to Sleepy Peak Elementary. Ramshackle buildings and dusty, tired trees blur by him. When they arrive, he clambers out of David’s truck and shrugs his backpack over one shoulder. 

“Ms. Urig is a very nice lady,” David says as they walk inside. A menagerie of children swarms around them, all chattering loudly and clutching brightly-colored backpacks. Several of them shout greetings to David, and he returns each smile he receives as brightly as he can. Max shrinks closer to him to avoid the other kids. “She’s going to love you, and I’m sure you’re going to love her, too.”

Max thinks that’s  _ extremely  _ unlikely. He schools his expression into one of clear disinterest as they near Ms. Urig’s class, looking flatly at his teacher as David introduces the two of them. 

“Ms. Urig, good morning! This is my foster son, Max Deshpande. Max, this is Ms. Urig, your teacher.” David gestures enthusiastically between them, his eyes shining. “I’m sure the two of you are going to get along great.”

“We’ll do our best,” Ms. Urig—a short, plump woman with warm eyes—agrees as she smiles down at him. “Won’t we, Max?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“That’s the spirit!” David sets his hands on his hips. “Right. Well, I guess I’d better get to my class, too. I’ll see you this evening, Max. Feel free to drop by my classroom if you need anything, and be good for Ms. Urig.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye, David.” Max strides into the classroom without a glance back, scanning the faces of his classmates. There aren’t many in their seats yet, since David dropped him off early. The desks are arranged in blocks of four, and each block of desks has colored plastic seats with nametags taped to the back. Before he gets too far into the classroom, Ms. Urig sets a hand on his shoulder. He shrugs her off as he turns to face her. 

“Your desk is right over here,” she says, pointing towards a desk near one of the blocks in the front. “You’re part of the blue group. Your seat will be the one with your nametag on it. Go ahead and store some pencils, markers, colored pencils, and paper in your desk drawer, then put your backpack over in the locker with your name on it.”

Max sets his backpack down on his desk with a disheartening  _ thump,  _ rummaging through it to pull out the necessary supplies and stock them in his desk. That done, he shoves his backpack into the locker at the back of the room and slouches into the bright blue seat at his desk. Ms. Urig comes to sit next to him, sliding a small agenda and a blue folder towards him. 

“This is your agenda,” she explains. “You’ll write down when all of your assignments are due so you don’t forget them, and you’ll show it to David each night so he knows what homework you have. You can also write down other important events, like your birthday or your friends’ birthdays or family events. Make sense?”

Max pulls the agenda towards himself, flipping through the pages. “Yeah.”

Ms. Urig slides the folder to him, next. It has his name written on it in chubby bubble letters. “Sometimes we finish assignments in class, so you’ll store those in here and turn them in at the end of the day. I’ll hand out homework papers at the end of the day, too, and you’ll put them in your backpack.”

He sighs softly. “‘kay.” 

She points out the parts of the classroom, next: the tiny library with all the slender paperbacks, the student mailboxes, the supply cart, the student stage, the art wall, the writing wall, the cubbies full of brightly-colored math manipulatives. After that, she takes mercy on him and leaves him alone as the other students begin to trickle in. The three unlucky bastards in his group arrive soon, sliding into their seats and trying to engage him in a conversation he shuts down cold. He’s not here to make  _ friends. _

...of course, he said that at camp, too.

The day passes in a strange blend of anxiety and boredom. He  _ hates  _ being surrounded by so many noisy kids, by so many strangers, not knowing what’s going to happen next or how he’s going to be able to control it. For the most part, though, nothing exciting really  _ happens.  _ They start with their writing lessons, which are a pain in the ass given that Max broke his dominant arm. He spends most of his time trying to figure out just how the fuck to write legibly with his left hand. Fortunately, Ms. Urig takes pity on him and doesn’t penalize him for his sloppiness.

After writing, they take turns reading aloud—the class is already halfway through  _ Hatchet,  _ and Max is reeling just trying to keep up. Why is this kid lost in the wild? Where the hell are his parents? Why is he eating so many  _ berries?  _ Max grudgingly reads when it’s his turn, his voice low and as apathetic as he can make it. That horrendous drivel accomplished, they move onto math, next. Math has never been Max’s strong suit, and he’s already almost a week behind whatever these bastards have been learning without him. Ms. Urig helps him out for most of the hour, which he would appreciate, if it weren’t so humiliating. He can  _ hear  _ the other kids whispering about him, and it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

They eat lunch in the cafeteria at noon. Max guzzles a carton of chocolate milk and then pokes unenthusiastically at his corn, listening to the annoying chatter of the other fifth-graders that surround him. Recess follows. Max finds himself a quiet patch of the playground and sits down, tipping his face back into the sun and trying to ignore the delighted shrieks that come from the direction of the swings. He wishes he’d thought to steal David’s phone this morning, so he could at least text Nikki and Neil on his break.

After recess, they talk about the dead old bastards who colonized America during social studies. For science, Ms. Urig goes over the different phases of matter and demonstrates the main three with water. She lets them each chew on a piece of ice during her demonstration, which Max can definitely get behind. They discuss ideas for experiments on phases of matter in their small groups—or, more aptly, Max listens as  _ his  _ group discusses experiments. Their last hour of the day is free reading time. Max snatches  _ Children of the Corn  _ from his backpack and busies himself reading it and that’s the best part of the whole damn day.

“What are you reading, Max?” Ms. Urig asks as she passes by his desk.

_ “Children of the Corn  _ by Stephen King,” Max says, not bothering to look up at her. “It’s about kids who kill people.”

“Oh.” Ms. Urig’s voice gets a little faint. “Is David okay with you reading that?”

“David bought it for me.”

So Ms. Urig leaves him to it—although he has no doubt she’ll be talking to David soon. Once free reading is over, she escorts them to the front doors, where the buses are loaded and parents arrive to pick up their squalling brats. Max searches for Gwen’s car—David had showed him a picture of it yesterday—and finds it near the back of the line. He ducks away from Ms. Urig, weaving his way through the crowd until he can clamber into the back seat of her car.

“Hey there, you little shit. Long time no see,” Gwen says. “How was this hellhole?”

“Hellish.” Max shoves his bag over, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his forehead against them. “I hate school.”

“I hear you there, kid.”

“You paid thousands of dollars to attend for an extra four years, Ms.  _ Liberal Arts Major,  _ I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Yeah,” Gwen says bleakly. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“God, that sucks.”

“Tell me about it. And hey, put your seatbelt on already so we can go.”

Max jerks his seatbelt on, slumping over against the window and leaning his head against the cool glass. 

Gwen drives them back to David’s house, blasting some tinny old-school rock CD she says her dad gave her. It’s actually not half bad, and Max has high standards for his rock ‘n roll. At the very least, it keeps Gwen from trying to hold a conversation with him, which he’s sure they both appreciate—the worthlessness of small-talk is one of the many things they agree on. Once they reach the house, Max hauls his backpack out of the car and leads the way to the front door. She unlocks it for him, and he drops his bag against the wall before flopping face-first onto the living room couch. 

“So what do you wanna do tonight, pipsqueak?” Gwen asks, pushing his feet out of the way before taking a seat next to him. 

“Die.”

“That’s a shitty thing to joke about, Max.” Gwen leans her head back against the couch cushions and sighs. “But I get it. School’s pretty stressful. I mean, shit, I can’t imagine starting a new school after everything that’s already happened to you. You got fucked over big time.”

“Right?” Max demands, rolling over and glaring at the ceiling. “Like what the _hell,_ man? Was being thrown down a flight of stairs and then ripped away from my parents by a cold, brutally uncaring social system not enough? Now I have to learn _long division,_ too?”

Gwen snorts. “I do  _ not  _ envy you.”

He flips her off, albeit more halfheartedly than usual.

“So how’s it been, anyway?” she asks. “Living with David? Are you two...good?”

Max shrugs. “He’s David. You know what living with him is like.”

“God, do I,” she says. He expects her to sound annoyed, but there’s actually something a little fond in her voice. “I kinda miss it. I mean, I know he can be annoying, but he’s also really sweet. He cheers things up.”

“Sometimes it pisses me off seeing how happy he is all the time, but I’m—glad, too, I guess,” Max says, sitting up. “I’m glad somebody in this whole worthless world can be happy, and he’s a good guy, so it might as well be him.”

A wry smile flickers across Gwen’s face as she shifts her head to look at him. “If you could have heard yourself say that four months ago…”

“I know, I know. I’ve gone soft.” Max wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Don’t remind me.”

“David tends to do that to people. He’s like a little meat tenderizer.”

“...fuckin’ ew.”

Gwen grimaces. “Yeah, that was a bad analogy.”

“Literally the worst.”

“Oh, lay off.” She elbows him gently. “Seriously, though, everything’s going well for you guys? You’re not giving him too much hell?”

“Nah. I figured I could cut him a break, seeing as how I almost got him killed and everything,” Max says, waving a hand dismissively in the air. “I’d say that’s enough hell to last him a few weeks, at the very least.”

Gwen’s eyebrows crease together, her mouth turning down at the edges. “Hey, you know what happened to David wasn’t your fault, right?”

“Gwen, seriously? Cut the bullshit,” Max says, his voice sharpening. “You and I both know he was only there because of me.  _ I  _ called him.  _ I  _ brought him into that situation. I knew my dad was angry, and I knew he was dangerous, and I knew David could be hurt. I knew all of that and I called anyway. How in the hell is that not my fault?”

“Have you talked to David about this?”

“Fuck no. You know how he gets. He’ll be all upset if he knows I feel bad about something. He’ll want to sit down and talk about our feelings or something gross like that.”

“And do you feel bad?”

Max flings his hands up. “Of course I feel bad! I know I was a complete asshole to David for the longest time, but I—fuck, man, I don’t want to see him get hurt anymore. It’s like watching a puppy get kicked. It’s just  _ sad.  _ He doesn’t deserve that, especially not because of some punk-ass kid.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Gwen agrees, folding her arms across her chest. “But it wasn’t the punk-ass kid who hurt him. It was a grown-ass man who made his own shitty choices and—”

“But I set him up to make those choices. I was the one who got him angry in the first place. I was the one who put the perfect punching bag on his doorstep. Seriously, Gwen. I thought you’d understand. You’re not like other adults.”

“...should I be offended?

“Ugh, no. It’s just—you don’t treat me like a fucking  _ baby  _ or like I’m gonna break or something, so don’t start now. It pisses me off.”

“Okay. You want to know what I really think, Max?”

He glances expectantly at her.

“I think you’re  _ ten.  _ I think when you called David you were scared to death—”

“I was  _ angry.” _

“—and in pain and panicking and yeah, okay, angry. Like  _ hell  _ were you planning for David to get hurt. You waited until your dad went to sleep, David told me that, and he told me you tried to get him to sneak in. It was an accident that your dad found him—an  _ accident.  _ It was nobody’s fault but your dad’s, because he chose to hurt David the way he did, and because he chose to hurt  _ you  _ the way that he did. Get over yourself, kid. Not everything’s your fault.”

Max tears his eyes away from her, focusing them on his sneakers instead—the new ones, the ones with hardy soles and bright, vivid red canvas. She can’t actually believe that, can she? Sure, Max didn’t  _ plan  _ for David to be hurt, but he knew it was a risk and he took it anyway. It was selfish. He can’t say that he truly regrets it, because everything seems to have worked out in his favor, and David isn’t  _ too  _ badly damaged, but—

But  _ goddammit _ he wishes those bruises around David’s throat were gone.

“You don’t have to believe it now,” Gwen says, “or ever, I guess, but that’s what I think. Take it or leave it.”

“...yeah, well. Thanks, I guess.”

She reaches out, ruffling his hair. She wrinkles her nose when her fingers catch on a snag, and he bats her away and scowls at her. “Yeah, you’re welcome, you brat. Now quit brooding. David’ll whine at me if I return you in a foul mood. What do you want to do? TV? Books? Games?”

“TV’s fine, as long as it’s not one of your shitty soap operas.”

Gwen sighs wistfully, grabbing the remote from the fireplace mantle and tossing it to him. “You don’t know what you’re missing, kid.”

The two of them flick through their options on Netflix for almost half an hour, debating adamantly as they try to pick something the both of them will enjoy. Eventually, they settle on  _ Castlevania.  _ Gwen’s in it for Alucard; Max is in for the blood, gore, and graphic violence. The two of them rant profusely at the television whenever one the characters makes a  _ hideously stupid decision,  _ and Max teases the shit out of Gwen when she oogles the vampires. Unfortunately, they only get a couple of episodes in before Gwen shuts off the TV and heads for the kitchen.

“What the hell are you doing? It was actually getting good,” Max complains. 

“And  _ I  _ am actually getting hungry, so get off your ass and show me where David keeps all the food around here. He’ll be home soon, so we may as well have dinner cooking.”

Gwen and Max are far from chefs, but they both have experience fending for themselves in the food department, so they manage to cram together a semi-edible meal of mozzarella cheese sticks, cubed watermelon, and grilled chicken. 

“David never uses enough spice,” Max explains as he dumps a hearty handful of cayenne over the chicken sizzling in the skillet. “It’s because he’s white.”

“White _and_ a giant baby. C’mon, Max, be nice. At least leave one of the chicken breasts mild for him.”

“Yeah,” Max says, dumping only  _ half  _ a handful of cayenne onto one of the breasts. “Okay.”

They hear the choked rumble of David’s truck pulling into the driveway just as Gwen pulls a tray of mozzarella sticks from the the oven and Max finishes carving out a watermelon slice. Gwen tugs her oven mitts off, dropping them on the breakfast bar before going to get the door. Max focuses on turning his watermelon chunk into watermelon cubes, careful not to slice his fingers with the cutting knife.

“Look who’s home,” Gwen shouts from the front door. David’s response is too distant for Max to make it out, but whatever it is has Gwen laughing. “Hey, I’ll have you know we didn’t set a single thing on fire.”

David’s boots thump on the floor as he enters the house. The worry curled sinisterly in Max’s chest finally begins to ease—David came home. David actually came home. “Oooh, it smells good in here. Are you guys cooking?”

“Sure are. We got hungry waiting on you, but we will gladly let you set the table.” 

David chuckles as he enters the kitchen. “Hey, Max. What are you—oh you gave him a knife.”

“Yeah, and who bought him a BB gun for fake Christmas? He’s  _ fine,”  _ Gwen insists, pushing David’s shoulder gently. “Don’t start smothering him now. I taught him how to use it the right way, and I’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

“Yeah, David.” Max points the knife in his direction. “Don’t smother me or I’ll smother you—ideally with a pillow in the dead of night with a getaway car at the ready. I’m a ten-year-old, not an invalid.”

David smiles sheepishly at him. “Sorry, sorry. Did you cut all that by yourself?” he asks, pointing at the bowl of watermelon cubes next to Max. 

“Mm-hm.”

“They look great! And the chicken smells great, too. What’s on it?”

“Just some seasonings,” Max says breezily, finishing off the watermelon and scooping the last few cubes into the bowl. “Anyway, how was your weird babysitting class?”

“It was wonderful, and very helpful. I learned a bunch.”

Max glances suspiciously at him, rinsing watermelon juice from his fingers. “Yeah? Like what...?”

“I’ll tell you all about it later,” David promises, gathering plates and glasses from the cabinets before going to set the table. 

Gwen dishes out mozzarella sticks and marinara sauce once David has plates on the table. Max trails behind her, depositing a spoonful of watermelon cubes onto each plate. David rounds out the course, setting a chicken breast down for each person. Max makes sure to push the  _ mildly seasoned  _ plate to David’s seat and doesn’t waste time digging in once they all take their spots at the table; poking at his lunch had left him  _ starving,  _ for once. 

“So what fun did you two get up to without me?” David asks, jamming a watermelon cube into his mouth. 

Max and Gwen trade a glance. “We watched  _ Castlevania,” _ Max says. What’s David gonna do? Give him the  _ disappointed stare?  _

_ “Castlevania? _ What’s that?”

“It’s, uh,” Gwen says, studying her chicken. “It’s a cartoon about vampires.”

Max snorts. “A cartoon, yeah. Anyway, it’s pretty cool.”

“Well, I’m glad you found something you both enjoyed,” David says cheerfully. “Oh! And how was your first day at school, Max? Did you have fun?”

Max stares flatly at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Aww, no. How come?”

“David, it’s  _ school.  _ You sit at a desk for eight hours while some woman blabbers on about how  _ great  _ colonial Americans were when they came over and slaughtered and raped and pillaged thousand of Native Americans in order to colonize an entire continent purely because of their greed, and then you eat some shitty cafeteria food and sit outside on the playground for half an hour. It’s not exactly fun.”

“Yeah,” David agrees, which is not what Max had been expecting. “Colonial Americans were...pretty awful. That wasn’t my favorite part of school, either. But surely you had fun at  _ some  _ point? What about reading? Or math? Or writing?”

Max points at his broken arm. “Writing was  _ also  _ garbage, considering I’m right-handed and my right hand is currently out of commission. Reading was boring. Math gave me a headache.”

“Okay, so I’ll agree that as a whole school is pretty awful,” Gwen says, “but you really didn’t like even a  _ single  _ part of the day?”

Max taps his fork against his plate, propping his face in his hand. “...in science she let us chew on ice. That was okay. Then we got to read by ourselves so I, uh. I finally started reading that book you got me, David.”

David lights up. “Did you? How do you like it?”

“It’s actually pretty cool.”

“What book is it?” Gwen asks, poking her marinara with a mozzarella stick. 

_ “Children of the Corn  _ by Stephen King,” Max says, glancing surreptitiously in David’s direction. 

Gwen’s eyes widen. “Woah, seriously—you’re letting him read that? Do you know what’s in it?”

“I have a pretty good idea,” David says, his smile softening some. “I talked to the Carpenters, and they said he really liked reading Stephen King. While I don’t personally enjoy horror like that, if Max does, then I’m not going to keep it away from him. Besides, there’s nothing in that book that’s scarier than what he’s already been through—and I don’t think stories are going to give him the same nightmares that movies might. Not like  _ Dark Reflections.”  _

David shudders as he mentions the series, and Max rolls his eyes on reflex—but he’s actually pretty surprised. He hadn’t expected David to be so cool about it. He’s always had a tendency towards overprotectiveness. “Well, thanks,” Max says, scowling at his plate so David doesn’t read  _ too  _ much into it. “For the book, and for not freaking out about it.”

“Of course,” David says, looking earnestly at him. “I just hope—well, I just hope that if you have any questions about why things happen in the book, or if anything surprises you or concerns you, we can talk about it. Tell you what, actually, let’s make a deal.”

Max glances up, arching an eyebrow.

“If you’ll tell me what you thought of the book and what happens in it—what you agree with, what you disagree with, the parts you liked and the parts you disliked—then I’ll buy you another Stephen King book.”

“For real?”

“Cross my heart.”

“I want to pick the next book.”

“Fine, but it can’t have torture, rape, or abuse in it. That’s where I draw the line. You really  _ are  _ too young for that sort of thing.”

Max snorts. “Tell that to my papa.”

“Well _ somebody  _ needs to,” David says, a flicker of anger in his voice. Max and Gwen both glance at each other, surprised. “But I think the police got that message across to him pretty well.”

David saws off his first bite of chicken with a little more vigor than necessary, jamming it into his mouth. Max gulps his chocolate milk to hide his smile, but he can’t keep from bursting into laughter as David’s expression morphs into one of pure horror. He makes a sound like a kicked dog—a pathetic, wobbly whine—as his eyes begin to water. He gulps down the bite he took, then hisses out a sharp breath.

“What,” he whispers, “is that.”

Besides him, Gwen cackles.

“Actual seasonings,” Max says. “Do you like it?”

David wheezes. “Yeah,” he lies like a lying liar, reaching for another bite and wedging it into his mouth. “It’s really great.”

“Oh, you fucking liar,” Gwen says, reaching over to tossle his hair. “Your bullshit _stinks.”_

“You are literally crying,” Max points out. 

David sniffles and pointedly swallows his second bite. Gwen sweeps his plate away before he can take another bite, ignoring his cry of displeasure. 

“Nope,” she says, sliding the chicken onto her own plate. Max shoves him another helping of mozzarella sticks. “You are not going to eat that whole thing just to prove a point, you stubborn ass.”

“But you made it for me,” David protests, swiping at his eyes and sniffling. His cheeks are flushed painfully red. Jesus, he really cannot handle his spices. “You both—you made it for me and I wanna eat it.”

“We’ll make you something again,” Gwen promises. “Something that won’t cripple you, okay?”

“God, you really are pathetic,” Max says, but he shoves his glass of chocolate milk towards David anyway. He likes a good prank, but he can’t deny that seeing David in pain  _ does  _ make him feel unfortunately guilty, nowadays. “Come on, drink this. It’ll make it hurt less.”

“Oh. Thank you, Max,” David says, cupping his hands around the glass and sniffling appreciatively in Max’s direction. He gulps at the milk, sighing with relief at the first mouthful. Once he’s downed the glass, he rinses it and refills it for Max before sitting back down. “It really had, um—it had good flavor. It just hurt a lil bit.”

Gwen pats his shoulder. 

“Indian food uses a lot of spices,” Max says, chewing on his own bite of chicken. The cayenne makes his lips and tongue tingle, but it doesn’t hurt him, he thinks, the way it does David. “When I was little, my mama used to cook sometimes. I guess I just got used to it.”

“Is that your way of telling me you want more spice in your food?” David asks, dabbing at his eyes with his napkin. 

“I mean, only if it’s not gonna give you an aneurysm or something.”

“I think we can work out a compromise.” David offers him a grin, and Max flickers a grin back before he realizes what he’s doing and quickly schools his face into neutrality again. “But if we’re all done eating, how about we clean up? Max, did you have any homework you needed to do?”

“Nope,” Max says. “Not this time.”

“Alrighty, then you can go get ready for bed, but if you want to watch something with Gwen and I before you go to hang out in your room, you’re welcome to.”

_ “Castlevania?” _ Max asks hopefully. Gwen touches his shoulder and shakes her head. “Ugh, fine. What about  _ Iron Man?” _

When David and Gwen both agree, Max carries his plates to the sink and takes up his job rinsing. Once the dishes are done, Gwen and David head for the living room, and Max grabs his backpack and goes upstairs. He showers, half-heartedly brushes his teeth, and dresses in his new pajamas: a pair of black basketball shorts and a blue ACDC t-shirt. That done, he trots back down the stairs and flops onto the couch between David and Gwen. 

“Wait, hold up. What is  _ this?”  _ Gwen asks the second he’s gotten comfortable, damn her. She reaches out, threading fingers through his hair—they snare on his tangles for the second time today, and he winces and pushes her away. 

“It’s my  _ hair,  _ no shit,” Max says. “Problem?”

“Uh, yes,” Gwen says. “Did you even brush?”

“I brush in the mornings before school,” Max says. “Not at night. It’s just gonna get all tangled when I go to sleep.”

“No wonder you always look like such a little rat. This stuff’s gonna be impossible to brush out if you let it dry this way,” Gwen says.

A jolt of sudden humiliation goes through Max’s chest. He hunches his shoulders, a scowl etching itself onto his face. “Well I’m  _ sorry  _ my hair isn’t up to your sanctimonious standards,” he snaps. “What the hell do you want me to do about it? I can’t brush it now or it hurts too much. It’s easier when it’s dry.”

“Guys…” David starts.

Gwen throws her hands up. “It hurts because it’s  _ tangled,  _ detective _.  _ God, who the hell taught you how to take care of curls?”

Max’s throat tightens, shame boiling through him. “You know what,” he says. “Fuckin’ forget this. I’m going back upstairs.”

Max stands again, but David reaches out and rests a hand on his elbow. “Max, hey, come on. Gwen didn’t mean it like that. She—”

Max shrugs him off, storming towards the stairs. 

“Max, wait,” Gwen says, and Max whips around to glower at her. He expects her to lash out, to defend herself, to prove her  _ fucking point,  _ but she doesn’t. Instead, she swallows hard and says, “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Max’s brow furrows.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was stupid and bitchy and thoughtless.”

“Yeah. It really was.”

“Can I help you, please?”

Max hesitates, shifting his weight nervously. “With what? My stupid hair?”

“I can show you how to brush it out without it hurting,” Gwen offers. “It’ll be a lot easier after the first time.”

“...sure, why the fuck not?” Max asks, scuffing the carpet with his foot and hunching his shoulders. “Not like I have anything better to do, considering my other options are sitting in the dark and brooding or watching some shitty show with you two.”

“Alright, a hair day it is. You too, David, let’s go. I’ll show you both how to wrangle this rat’s nest.”

Gwen leads the way upstairs. Max follows behind her, and David’s hand comes to rest on his back. When Max glances over his shoulder, David offers an encouraging smile. Max shrugs him off, but he has to admit he does feel a little better, knowing David is here with him. The three of them cram themselves into the tiny upstairs bathroom; Gwen sits on the toilet, Max sits on the floor in front of her, and David sits on the side of the bathtub. 

“First things first,” Gwen says, reaching for a bottle of conditioner. David watches with rapt attention. Max tries to look bored with the whole thing, but he keeps himself focused on Gwen’s actions. He doesn’t want people thinking he looks like a damned rat if he can help it—not that he actually cares what they think, because that’d be fuckin’ stupid. “David, get some detangling spray. It’ll make your life so much easier. Right now we can just use this conditioner, but we’ll have to rinse it out.”

Gwen drapes a towel around his shoulders, and Max grimaces as she begins to rub conditioner into his hair. She keeps her touch gentle and doesn’t yank at his tangles yet, which he appreciates—but he dreads the moment when she’s going to start. Once he’s been more or less drenched with the conditioner (gross), she glances at David.

“Do you have a comb for him?”

“No, just a brush.”

“Get a comb.”

“Will do—here, you can use mine for now.” David rinses off his own comb, then hands it to Gwen.

“The trick is to go from one knot to the next and try to tease the hairs apart. It’s easier if you start at the bottom and work your way up. Max, you might feel some tugging, but stop me if it starts to hurt.”

When Max hums his agreement, Gwen begins guiding the comb through his hair. It feels like she’s making no progress at all, lingering at the same spot for several minutes as she coaxes his tangled hairs apart from each other. As promised, it doesn’t hurt. Actually, it’s...kind of relaxing. His shoulders begin to droop as she moves onto the second tangle.

“If you have detangling spray, you can do this when the hair’s dry,” Gwen explains quietly—to him or David or both, he’s not sure. “But it’s usually easier if it’s a little damp. For tangles like this, actual conditioner is probably your best bet. You can use a regular brush most of the time, but with big knots you want to use a wide-toothed comb so it breaks fewer hairs.”

“There’s a lot that goes into this, huh?” David asks. 

“For those of us not blessed with perfectly straight hair, yes,” Gwen says, snorting. “Here, c’mere. You try.”

David and Gwen switch places, and David begins to work on another tangled knot. Max keeps his head down, his eyes focused on middle space. His scalp tingles pleasantly at the attention, and he’s starting to feel heavy. Sighing, he leans back against David’s legs, resting his head against one of David’s knobbly knees. 

“You doing okay?” David asks, his hands pausing.

“Mm-hm. Just don’t fuck up.”

“I’ll try not to.” David resumes his ministrations, and he does manage to not fuck up for a few minutes. Then the comb slips, yanking a few hairs from Max’s scalp. Max winces, and David apologizes profusely, patting the top of his head. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“It’s okay,” Gwen says, and Max gladly lets her handle their emotional mess of a friend. He feels too quiet to really get pissed at David, right now. It’s not worth getting pissed over, anyway. “Just rub in a little more conditioner and try again.”

“Like this…?” David globs far, far too much gooey conditioner into his hair, and Max sighs heavily.

“Oh, David. Here.” Gwen comes to stand beside him, reaching down to work the conditioner into Max’s hair. He leans into her hands as she rubs small, soothing circles across his scalp. His whole body slumps, and he realizes that he actually feels kind of...peaceful, like this. Fuckin’ weird. Eventually, Gwen draws back and wipes her hands off on a towel. “Okay, try now.”

David eases the comb through the rest of the tangle, sighing in relief when the hairs part easily from each other. He works his way gently through the rest of Max’s hair, then sets the comb aside and runs his fingers through to make sure they don’t snag on any hidden tangles. When he stops, Max hesitates, then nudges into his hand until he does it again, letting Max’s curls sift through his fingers.

“There,” he says. He sounds proud. “How’s that, Max?”

Max hums his approval.

“Now we rinse. Tip your head back over the tub,” Gwen instructs, kneeling next to the bathtub. Max rouses himself enough to follow her instructions, and she tucks the towel more securely around his shoulders so his shirt won’t get wet. Then she begins to run the water, and he cracks an eye open as a wary flicker rears its head in his chest. But she doesn’t do anything to hurt him—she only guides the showerhead over his scalp and runs warm water through his hair, chasing it with her fingers until all of the conditioner is gone. 

When she says to, Max straightens back up and lets her towel his hair dry. David runs the comb through his hair one more time, making sure no curls have stuck back together, and then whisks the towel off of his shoulders. Max reaches up, smoothing his own fingers through his curls. They don’t snag even once, and his heart does something wobbly and soft. He swallows hard.

“Nobody taught you, huh?” Gwen asks softly, reaching out to touch his hair gently. 

He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. Really. For what I said, and for your shithole parents, and for everything,” Gwen says, squeezing his shoulder. “Your curls look really good, even if I think they double as a rat’s vacation home.”

David reaches out, tugging one curl gently. “I think you may need a haircut. Want to look and see?”

Max stands, fluffing his curls out and examining them in the mirror. They are getting a little long, aren’t they? He hasn’t cut them since before camp. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ll cut them soon.”

“Actually, I think now is a great time to ask Gwen if she knows how to cut hair, too.”

Gwen snorts, ruffling Max’s hair and slipping out of the bathroom. “Gwen could be convinced to give both of you hooligans haircuts, but not tonight. Max looks like he’s about to fall asleep standing up.”

“I do not,” Max grumbles.

“You do too. Go to bed, kid. I’ll see you later.” She waves at him, then heads for the stairs.

“Bye, asshole,” he says. “Thanks and stuff.”

David crouches in front of him. “I’m going to go see Gwen out, but you have a good night, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night,” Max agrees, rubbing his eyes before padding towards his bedroom. He curls up in his bed, pulling Mr. Honeynuts to him—and as he drifts hazily towards sleep, he begins to comb his fingers through the bear’s scruffy fur.

* * *

“Thanks for watching him today. I really appreciate it,” David says, flopping out onto the couch with Gwen. 

She reaches over, smoothing her fingers through his mop of hair. She flops it over his eyes, and he wrinkles his nose. “It was fun,” she says. “Max can be a little bastard, but he’s not a bad kid. Anyway, he’s got pretty good taste in monster shows.”

“...I take it  _ Castlevania _ wasn’t as kid-friendly as you led me to believe?”

Gwen snorts, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. “Absolutely not. It’s mostly blood and gore, though—I wouldn’t let him watch anything rape-y or torture-y. I don’t wanna coddle him, and I know he’s probably seen stuff like that before, but…”

“I get it. He  _ is  _ only ten. I know maybe he doesn’t like be coddled, but I want him to feel like we care, you know? Ugh, it’s hard to draw the line between protectiveness and  _ over _ protectiveness.”

“Especially with Max.”

“Especially with Max.” David scrubs a hand through his own hair. “He’s experienced enough violence to last him a lifetime, so I don’t know why he wants to read  _ more  _ of it. But maybe it’s helping him cope? Maybe he can relate to the characters, maybe he feels like their victories are his victories? I dunno. I think I’ll ask his therapist about it when I get the chance.”

“You know, there are Stephen King books that  _ aren’t  _ horribly bloody and violent. Maybe you could nudge him in that direction.”

“You think?”

“Sure.” Gwen shrugs, laying back and propping her feet in his lap. “King’s a good author. I think Max would enjoy any genre, as long as it still makes him feel badass compared to other fifth graders.”

“That’s a good idea. I, uh—I got some other good ideas from the fostering class tonight, too.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Well, Max has been...withdrawn. He likes hiding out in his room more than anything else. It was kinda worrying me. I was afraid he wasn’t happy here, or that he wanted to avoid me, but Ms. Ellis told me that it happens with a lot of foster kids. Their room is their safe space, especially while they’re adjusting to their new environment. She said to just be persistent, and try to tempt him out with things he really likes. So I’m thinking I  _ really  _ need to get a gaming console.”

“Hell yeah, that’d get him down here. But…?”

“But?”

“I sensed a but.”

“Oh—well,  _ but  _ acting withdrawn can also be a symptom of complex PTSD. We’re definitely gonna have to let his therapist know.”

“You think he has PTSD?”

David holds his hands out helplessly. “I mean, we were going over the symptoms in class, and it’s just so common with cases that come from abuse and neglect—I don’t think it’s unlikely. I’m gonna let the therapist make that call, though. If he doesn’t have it, great! If he does have it, then we’ll figure out what we need to do to help him. Either way, it’s okay.”

“Yeah. And I mean, from what I’ve heard, it sounds like his parents weren’t very interested in doing anything with him—he’s probably  _ used  _ to hanging out in his room and keeping himself entertained for hours. He’s just doing what makes him feel normal and safe.”

“That’s kind of what I think, too. It’s sad.”

Gwen inclines her head. “It is sad. Who the hell has a kid and then doesn’t take care of it? I mean, I don’t even  _ like  _ kids, but if I made the choice to have one I’d damn well look after it or give it to someone who could. It’s my fault it’s alive, right?”

David sighs quietly, leaning his head back against the couch. “I wish everyone felt the same.”

For a minute, the two of them are quiet, brooding on all the unfairness in the world. Then Gwen reaches out and pokes David’s cheek. “What else? That can’t be  _ all  _ you learned. You were there for two hours.”

David brightens again, readily chasing after another line of thought. “Oh, yeah! I learned—oh, jeez, I learned so much. I have a lot of thinking to do. I took notes, see!”

David rushes over the his messenger bag, tugging out a yellow notebook and opening it to reveal meticulous notes in bright green gel pen. There are tiny doodles of trees and flowers and suns in the margins. Gwen smiles, reaching out to take it from him. The notes are written in his signature, loopy scrawl. “Jesus. Looks like you’re back in college.”

“Feels a little like it, too,” David says, chuckling. “I have homework and everything.”

Gwen taps on a section labeled RULES. “Rules, huh? How’d that go over with Max?”

“It, uh, didn’t.” David scratches his chin sheepishly when Gwen arches an eyebrow at him. “He didn’t want rules. I mean, he didn’t throw a fit or anything—he was just very clear and very adamant that we didn’t need them. He said as long as we respected each other, we’d be okay.”

“And you  _ agreed  _ with that?”

“Well, no, but I didn’t want to push the topic until I had talked to some other people about it. The adults in my class, they had some really good input.” David settles back down on the couch, folding his arms across his chest. “Max is so smart, Gwen. He’s really mature for his age—unfortunately so. Ms. Ellis says that’s not uncommon, either. I mean, he’s had to raise himself for most of his life, right?”

“Fuckin’ bullshit,” Gwen mutters. “A ten-year-old shouldn’t have to do that.”

“I know. That’s why I can’t let him anymore.” David tips his head back, taking a deep breath. “I mean, he’s done well. He’s done remarkably well, raising himself. He knows how to cook and clean, he knows how to entertain himself, he knows how to work with other people to get what he wants. But you seriously can’t expect a ten-year-old to learn how regulate his emotions and actions perfectly without  _ any  _ parental input.”

“You can say that again. Kid’s a mess.”

“Hey.” David frowns. 

“I’m not saying that to be mean.” Gwen raises her hands in surrender. “Given that he was raised by a neglected child for most of his life, he’s doing awesome. He can be damn cruel when he wants to be, though, and you know that firsthand. If he grows up thinking that shit’s okay, you’re gonna have a real problem on your hands. Don’t get me wrong—I think he’ll respect you, if he can. He likes you now. You’re, like, one of his favorite people.”

“Aw, Gwen, I don’t think…”

“No, seriously. You, Nikki, and Neil are his buddies. I really don’t think he  _ wants  _ to be bad for you—but again, he was raised by a neglected ten-year-old. He can try to guess what you want, and he’s damn good at knowing when he’s doing something wrong—and doing it anyway—but he’s going to get confused if you don’t have clear expectations for him.”

“That’s what they said in class, too,” David admits. “He needs rules. They’ll give him structure, they’ll help him feel safe, they’ll let him know I care what he acts like. I want us to make them up together, too, so he feels like he has a say in what respect means around the house. We’ll be on the same page then, so there’s no confusion about when we’ve messed up or when we’ve done well.”

“I think that’s a good plan.”

David beams. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I hope Max thinks the same thing, but—” David hunches his shoulders, chewing his bottom lip. “I don’t think he will.”

“Why not? He’s a pretty reasonable guy, most of the time.”

“I know he is. It’s just...well, I don’t think it’s the rules he’s afraid so much as it is the rule-maker.” David wraps one arm around himself, holding his other arm. Guilt sits heavy against his shoulders. “I mean, look at the people who have set rules for him before now. They weren’t kind to him at all. And punishments! Oh, Gwen, I can’t imagine what kind of punishments he’s had to go through…”

“Don’t imagine it,” Gwen says sternly. “You do not need to start weeping right now.”

David takes a deep breath. “It’s just—it’s completely rational for him to be scared. If there are no rules, there are no punishments, and he’s safe. If there are no rules, then I never have to be the disciplinarian and he never has to be afraid of me the way he was afraid of his father. But if there  _ are  _ rules…”

“You get to be the bad guy.”

David nods miserably. “I don’t want to be the bad guy. I don’t want to scare him.”

“You  _ won’t.”  _ Gwen sits up, squeezing his shoulder. “Seriously, David. You’d never hurt him, would you?”

“No! No, never!”

“Then let him know that. Decide on punishments with him ahead of time, so he knows exactly what to expect if he breaks a rule. Besides, rules aren’t  _ just  _ about punishments, right? What about your positive reinforcement?”

“Rewards!” David says cheerfully. “Of course! Oh, it’s going to be so hard not to spoil him, but Gwen, do you think he’s ever gotten a  _ reward  _ before?”

“I’m sure his parents have bribed him to do something before, yes.”

“Well I’m going to do it  _ better,”  _ David says, clenching a fist in determination. 

“You have to figure out what he likes, first. What do we have?”

“Stephen King books.”

“Chaos.”

“Candy.”

“Violent movies.”

“Dogs.”

“Well, that’s a start,” Gwen says, clapping her hands together before stretching and standing up. “Good luck, David, really. I hope it goes well for you.”

“Thanks, Gwen. Here, I’ll walk you out.” 

David escorts Gwen to her car, then stands in the driveway and waves as she pulls back onto the dirt road. Once her taillights vanish, he heads back into the house. He gets ready for bed, then flops down and reaches for  _ The Old Farmer’s Almanac  _ to lull himself into sleep. Tomorrow, he and Max are going to have a discussion; he can only hope they’ll come away from it better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have i mentioned i love mom!gwen?? bc i do,,,i love her,,so much,,,


	9. m9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: references to child abuse (physical + emotional) and child neglect

Tuesday afternoon, Max trudges away from Ms. Urig’s class to find David on the sidewalk in the front of the buses. A throng of fourth graders surround him, all clamoring for his attention. He talks enthusiastically to each of them, guiding them to their buses and directing them to their parents’ vehicles. Most of the parents wave at David as they load up their children, and more than once Max sees a mother or father turn around to greet their kids with a beaming smile once they’re in the backseat. The kids don’t need to be reminded to buckle.

Max lingers near the side of the building, waiting for David to finish dismissing his class. When the last of the buses and cars finally pull away, David sets his hands on his hips and sighs in satisfaction. He turns around, strolling back towards the doors. When he glimpses Max, his face splits into another delighted smile. “Max! Hey, there you are. Let me just grab my things from the classroom and we can go.”

Max follows him back into the school, shivering as the blast of the air conditioner hits him again. Today has been chillier than usual—not cold by any means, but certainly not the scorching, blistering heat Max has become accustomed to after a summer at camp. Unfortunately, the air conditioners didn’t get the memo. Max has been freezing most of the day, despite his hoodie’s best efforts.

“How was your day?” David asks as they make the walk back to his classroom.

“Fine,” Max says. He’s not in the mood to defend his loathing of school to David today.

“Ms. Urig says you’ve been doing well. She thinks you’re a little shy—are you being shy?”

Max snorts. “No. I just don’t see any reason to talk to her or anybody else. Just because I don’t spout off my thoughts the moment they enter my head doesn’t mean I’m shy. Pass that along while you’re gossiping about me, would you?”

“Aw, Max, we’re not gossiping. We’re just talking about you.”

“...you’ve  _ do  _ know the definition of the word gossip, right?”

“Well,  _ my  _ day was wonderful!”

“Great change of subject, really subtle.”

“We got to read some more, which the kiddos just loved. Then we practiced our multiplication tables—I have this CD with fun little songs for all the numbers. I think it really helps the students learn. You just can’t beat music and hands-on activities when it comes to learning! Tomorrow, I think I’m going to take everyone on a nature hike for science hour.”

“God, of course you are.”

“Outside time is wonderful for little minds,” David says, stepping into his classroom and heading for his desk. Max slumps into one of the student desks—they’re arranged in blocks, too. God, why do all the kids in this school have to collaborate so much? Poor suckers. “Nature is the best teacher.”

David continues to chatter as he loads his papers and folders into his messenger bag. He hooks the bag over his shoulder, then leads Max back out to the car. He finally lapses into silence on the drive home, allowing Max to pick the radio station—rock ‘n roll—and crank it up. He rolls the windows down, and Max hangs his hand out of the window to feel the cool tug of the breeze. When they arrive home, Max treks inside and heads for the stairs.

“Can I see your agenda?” David asks before he gets too far. Max sighs heavily, then rummages through his bag to pull it out and hand it to him. He flips through it to look at Max’s assignments. “Oh, look! We get to do some math homework tonight, huh?”

_ “We?  _ Nuh-uh.” Max takes his agenda back, wedging into his bag. “I’ve got it. I’m gonna go do it upstairs.”

“Oh—well, okay. Shout if you need any help, alright? I’m pretty good at division.”

Max reaches out, patting David’s back—and slyly pulling his phone from his pocket. “Thanks, but I think I’ve got it, old man.”

Careful to keep David’s phone out of sight, he climbs the stairs and ducks into his room. Homework? Fuck that, man. There is literally no reason for him to suffer through that shit. Instead, he flops down on his bed, whips out David’s phone, and goes to work on his Minecraft world. He’s almost finished constructing a stable for his horses when David comes knocking.

“Dinner’s done,” he says cheerfully. “Wash your hands and come eat, please.”

Max shoves David’s phone under his pillow, then heads for the bathroom to scrub his left hand off. He wiggles the fingers of his right hand, frowning at them. His broken arm doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it used to, but damn if it doesn’t  _ itch,  _ and he’s getting pretty sick of being unable to use it. He can’t wait to have this cast off. The other members of his class are keen to sign it, and he’s already tired of telling them off.

Downstairs, he finds a plate of sauteed zucchini, grilled salmon, and the remainder of last night’s melon cubes. He takes his seat, digging into the salmon as David slides into the seat across from him. 

“Get your homework all done?” David asks hopefully.

“Mm-hm.”

“Was it easy? Do you want me to go over it for you?”

“No. I’m pretty sure I’ve got it.”

“Alright.” David chews thoughtfully on his own salmon, then sips on his glass of water. “I’ve been thinking we should do something fun this weekend.”

Max pokes unenthusiastically at his zucchini. He tries a slice, then wrinkles his nose and turns to the melon cubes, instead. “Yeah, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you and I have very different interpretations of the word  _ fun.” _

“I was thinking we might take a trip to the amusement park in the city.”

“Huh. That actually  _ might  _ be fun.”

David beams. “Awesome! I’m so glad you think so. It’s really wonderful—I’ve only been there a couple of times, but they have some super cool rides.”

“Rollercoasters?” 

“Yeah.” David grins at him. “Lots of rollercoasters, Max.”

Max hides his smile in his glass of chocolate milk. “Cool.”

After dinner, they wash and rinse their dishes. Max heads for the stairs again, but David stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Max glances up at him, brow furrowing. “What?”

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

“We just spent, like, half an hour talking.”

“I know, but—Max, I really think we need to sit down together and have an important discussion.”

Max’s stomach drops, a flurry of worries suddenly slamming into him. Did he do something to piss David off? Is David sending him away? Is Mrs. Casper coming to take him away? Has his mama been released from prison? Has his  _ papa  _ been released from prison? Are they sending him back there? Are they—

“Why?” Max demands, pushing David’s hand off of his shoulder as his breathing begins to pick up. “What the fuck about?”

“Not about anything bad,” David hastens to add. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. I just to talk about house rules again.”

Max narrows his eyes. “We already talked about that.”

“I know, but we went over some stuff at my fostering class yesterday, and—here, let’s sit back down.” David takes a seat at the table again, snagging a yellow notebook off of the breakfast bar. “I told you I’d tell you what I learned, right?”

Max sits down, eyeing him suspiciously. “...right.”

“Well, one of the big things we went over was rules,” David explains, pushing the notebook towards Max so he can look over the notes. “I know that you said we would be fine if we respected each other, and I completely agree—but I think we need to be more clear about what respecting each other means, that way neither one of us is confused.”

“So, what? You want me to define respect?”

“Yes, actually.”

Max scowls at him, but when he doesn’t look away—when he holds Max’s gaze with that impossible patience of his—Max rolls his eyes and sits back in his seat. “Fine, but it’s really not that complicated. Respect means you don’t touch me if I tell you not to. You don’t touch my stuff without permission. You don’t shout at me. You don’t come into my room without me telling you it’s okay. You—”

“Do you mind writing these down?” David asks, gesturing to the notebook and rolling a blue pen to him. 

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. I’d like to have it written down so you and I don’t forget anything. Once you’re done giving me your rules, I’ll tell you my rules, and that way we’ll both know for sure what we expect from each other. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

Max picks up the pen, flicking it between his fingers and frowning at the table. “...yeah,” he says. “I guess.”

So Max jots down his rules for David in shaky, left-handed chicken scratch and bright blue gel pen:

  1. don’t touch me if i say not to
  2. don’t touch my shit without asking first
  3. don’t shout
  4. my room is off-limits unless i tell you to come in
  5. don’t keep me away from food or water
  6. clean up after yourself
  7. don’t lie to me
  8. don’t lock me inside any rooms
  9. don’t treat me like i’m five
  10. don’t ignore me
  11. don’t leave me at a shitty summer camp so you don’t have to deal with me



“There,” he says, once he’s done. He pushes the notebook back towards David. “Easy.”

David looks over the rules. Something small and sad and miserable flicks over his face as he scans the list, and Max scowls and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“What? They aren’t good enough?” he demands.

“No, Max, they’re good, they’re really good. They’re very clear. Um, on number nine, can we clarify that a little bit? What does treating you like you’re five consist of?”

“Like—I don’t know, like not letting me do shit because you think I’ll get hurt. I don’t mean super dangerous stuff, like playing with guns or whatever, but like the knife yesterday. I wasn’t gonna chop my fingers off! I can do stuff. I’m not a baby. Don’t talk to me like one, either. Don’t hide stuff from me or try to break it to me easy just so I won’t get hurt. It’s patronizing.”

“Okay,” David says. “Yeah, okay, I think I can do that. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Mm-hm.” Max leans forward, propping his chin in his hand. “So you’re gonna follow all the rules?”

“Every single one.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

“What do you think should happen?”

Max drums his fingers on the tabletop. He thinks about what happened when he pissed off his parents and what they’d do to him, and he...really doesn’t want to do that David. “If you mess up, then I get to pick what we watch on TV for a week.”

“Only if it’s appropriate,” David says. “No rape, no torture, no abuse.”

“Jeez, you’re really limiting me here.”

“I mean it, Max.”

“Alright, alright. But that’s not really a punishment for you, is it?” Max squints at him. “You don’t care about the TV. Okay, okay, wait, I got it! If you do something not that bad like coming into my room without asking, I get TV rights. If you do something really bad, like lying, then you lose  _ guitar  _ privileges for a week.”

David’s eyes widen. “...oh.”

“Yeah,  _ oh.”  _ Max crosses his arms over his chest, lifting his chin and looking haughtily at David. “Not so fun when you’re on the other side of things, huh?”

“No, but—that’s fair. Okay.” David sticks his hand out. “Shake on it.”

Max squeezes his hand tightly. 

“Can I tell you what respect means to me, now?”

“Sure.” Max sits back, watching as David picks up the notebook. “Shoot.”

David turns the notebook around, beginning to scrawl down his own rules in that gaudy green penmanship of his.

  1. No physical violence anywhere, towards yourself or anyone else.
  2. No insulting or swearing at others as a means to hurt their feelings.
  3. No deliberate damage of furniture or property. Accidents are okay!
  4. If someone tells you that you hurt them, apologize.
  5. Check with David before you leave the house.
  6. Please stay out of the garage unless David is there.
  7. Tend to responsibilities (homework, chores, etc.) before bedtime each day.
  8. Bedtime is at 9:30.
  9. Take care of yourself (or ask David for help)! Brush your hair, brush your teeth, shower, sleep, and eat when you’re hungry.
  10. Two hours of screentime each day (three on Thursdays, for your call with Nikki and Neil).
  11. Be honest.
  12. Ask an adult before watching an R-rated movie or TV show.
  13. The most important rule of all: have fun! :)



“Huh,” Max says.

“Is it okay?” David asks hopefully. “Are you alright with that?”

“Not like I have a choice.”

“Of course you have a choice, Max. If you disagree with something, or if you’re confused, let’s talk about it.”

“Fine.” Max taps a finger on number six. “Why can’t I go in the garage?”

“There are too many sharp things in there. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“That feels like it directly conflicts  _ my  _ number nine. Don’t treat me like a baby.”

“I’m not,” David assures him. “I know you’re capable of handling yourself around dangerous things, but that doesn’t mean it’s a risk I want to take. Kitchen knives are one thing, chainsaws are another. I’ll let you use anything in there, but I want to be with you, so if you get hurt I can get help. Deal?”

“Mm—yeah, okay. Deal.” Max shifts to point at number eight. “Bedtime is way too early. 9:30? Seriously?”

“Children your age require nine to twelve hours of sleep each night, and I know you have trouble sleeping, anyway. The sooner you get to bed, the better.”

“Make it 10:30.”

“9:45.”

“10:15.”

“10:00, and I don’t want any complaining about it.”

Max strikes the table with the flat of his hand. “Sold!”

“Good.” David cracks a grin at him. “Anything else?”

“Uh, yeah. Screentime? The fuck?”

“The amount of time you’re in front of a screen. You know, watching TV, playing video games, things like that.”

“You want me to  _ only  _ do that for two hours?”

“Three on Thursdays!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell else am I supposed to do all day?”

“Well, you can read,” David offers, “or we can play board games, or go exploring outside, or go for a walk, or learn a sport, or do something in town. There are lots of other fun things to do!”

_ “One  _ Avengers movie lasts longer than two hours. And what about the weekends? There’s no way I’m going to survive that. Fuck no.”

“What time limit do you suggest? Because there does have to be a limit, Max. You can’t just play on my phone all night.”

“I don’t see why not,” Max grumbles. 

“Hey, do you want to know a secret?”

Max glowers at him. “What?”

“If you prove to me that you can follow this rule for a month, I’ll buy you your own tablet so you don’t have to steal my phone all the time.”

“...for real?”

“For real.”

Max’s mouth twitches up at the edges. “Okay. Two hours on weekdays, but I really cannot handle that on weekends.”

“How many do you want on weekends?”

Max considers it, chewing his thumbnail. “Six hours on each day.”

“Three.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“I’m not compromising on five. Take it or leave it.”

“...four and a half.”

_ “Fucking five,  _ David.”

“Five,” David finally agrees, with a satisfied nod. “Anything else?”

Max hesitates, then glances warily at David from the corner of his eye. “...what happens if I don’t follow these?”

David takes a deep breath, turning to face Max completely. “Can you look at me?”

Max grimaces, but he meets David’s eyes. The intensity he finds there frightens him.

“I will  _ never  _ hurt you as a punishment, Max,” David says, his voice firm. “No matter what rule you break or how badly you break it. I will never hit you. I will never insult you. I will never ignore you, or lock you away somewhere, or keep you from food and water. Okay?”

Max’s eyes drop, and he picks nervously at his cast. “Doesn’t leave you many options. What  _ will  _ you do?”

“I suppose that depends on the offense. If it’s a little thing, then you lose screen privileges for a day or two. That means no phone, no music, no TV, no video games. You’ll still be allowed to talk to Nikki and Neil, but that’s it. The worse the offense, the longer you go without screens. We’ll also be having a very long conversation about why you chose to break the rules. Sound fair?”

“It could be worse,” Max says, and it could be. It could be so much worse. 

“But wait—” David’s eyes shine. “You haven’t even heard the best part.”

Max narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“This!” David cries joyfully, pulling out a calendar. 

“...fantastic?” 

“It really is. Look, every day that passes with good behavior, you’ll get a sticker on that day.” He holds up a pack of holographic Avengers stickers. “Huh? Pretty cool, right?”

“Hey, so, I can just reference you to rule M9 once again? I have a feeling you’re gonna have trouble with that one.”

“M9?”

“Yeah, Max’s rule number nine:  _ don’t treat me like I’m five.  _ I don’t need any goddamn stickers.” Max folds his arms across his chest, scowling. “Do you have any idea what kids actually like?”

“Well, what would you prefer?”

“I dunno, just mark an X through it or something, like a normal human being.”

“What? No way. Xs are so boring.”

“A fucking O then, I don’t give a shit! As long as it’s not some dumb sticker.”

“Maaaax.” David gives him goddamn  _ puppy dog eyes,  _ holding the stickers up appeasingly. “Please? I think they’re cool, and I kind of spent like ten dollars on them so—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“If you really don’t like them, I won’t buy any more, but at least let me use up this pack.”

“Fine,” Max says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But I’m seriously beginning to question which one of us is the adult in this relationship.”

“Really? I thought you started doing that a while ago,” David says, grinning cheekily at him and hanging the calendar up next to the pantry door. “So! If you get a full week of stickers, we’ll go eat anywhere you want to  _ and  _ you can order anything off of the menu.”

“Anything, huh?” Max asks, smirking.

“Anything but alcohol,” David amends quickly. “We’re talking cake, ice cream sundaes, donuts, the spiciest curry you can find, that kinda stuff.”

“If you think we’re gonna find any good Indian food in this backwater hick town, you’re crazier than I thought.”

“The city’s always an option, too. We can bring Gwen with us.”

Max steeples his fingers. “Okay, you’ve got me. Even if this is part of your gross positive reinforcement, I’m interested.”

David bounces giddily in place. “Fantastic! Okay okay so if you get  _ two  _ weeks of stickers—and they gotta be in a row—then you get two extra hours of screen time. You can use them all on one day, or you can spread them out over a few days. Alternatively, I’ll buy you a toy, but it’s gotta be under twenty dollars.”

“Appealing. Go on.”

“If you go three weeks with all good behavior, I’ll buy you a new video game or a new movie  _ and  _ you don’t have to do chores for a day.”

“Problem.”

“What’s that?”

“We don’t have any video game consoles, and the rise of streaming networks makes purchasing a movie redundant.”

“Alright, so we’ll go see whatever movie you want in theatres—provided it isn’t R-rated. As for video game consoles, well, that’s what happens after a month of good stickers. Er, for the first month, anyway. I’m afraid I can’t buy you one every month. But if you’re good for a month straight, I’ll buy us a playstation!”

Max’s eyes widen, and he leans forward. “No shitting?”

“Not even a little bit,” David says, beaming at him. “Sound good?”

“Hell yeah it does!”

David claps his hands together, puffing up with pride. “I thought it might. Are you sufficiently motivated?”

“Yeah, actually,” Max says. It’s weird to  _ want  _ to be a good little rule-following brat, but goddamn he  _ wants that playstation. _

“That’s what I like to hear.” David reaches out, ruffling his hair. He pins the sticker chart next to the calendar, along with the list of rewards. “I’ll take our rule chart to the school and make some copies of it, then laminate them. You and I will both get a copy, and I’ll hang one up on the fridge. Cool?”

“Cool.” Max swings his legs beneath the seat. “So when does all this start?”

“We can start now, if you want.”

“Will I get a sticker for today?”

“Have you followed all the rules?”

Max thinks of his math homework, sitting unfinished upstairs, and gnaws on his lip. “Not yet.”

“Fair enough,” David says, looking fondly at him. “Ask me for that sticker later tonight.”

Max flashes him a thumbs-up, then heads for the stairs. He’d better get his  _ shitty  _ homework done—he’s sure David will know if he doesn’t do it, since he and Ms. Urig are so fond of gossiping about him. He slumps into the chair at his desk, reaching for his bag and hauling it closer. The homework is just as horrendous as he thought it would be, but hey, David didn’t say he had to do it  _ right.  _ He just had to do it.

Fuckin’ loopholes, baby.

That night, there’s a gleaming Iron Man sticker on Max’s rewards calendar. He admires it for several minutes while he sits at the table and lets David comb through his hair before he goes to shower. David hums quietly under his breath while he works, easing the tangles from Max’s curls and smoothing them down. 

“You did good today,” he says once he’s finished, scratching Max’s scalp affectionately. “Really good. I’m proud of you.”

“Save it for someone who cares,” Max grumbles half-heartedly, snatching the comb away from David and heading for the stairs—but he can’t deny the pride that flickers to life in his chest in the advent of David’s praise. He cherishes that feeling, and he kinda sorta hates himself for it. David’s approval shouldn’t mean this much to him.  _ David  _ shouldn’t mean this much to him. He’s temporary, just like everyone else in Max’s shitty life, and getting left behind is only going to hurt more if Max cares. 

Even so—

“Good night, Max,” David says. “Sleep well.”

Even so, it’s ridiculously hard not to care about his dumb, happy foster father.

“Night, David.”


	10. knock-off chocolate milk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: medical procedures, needles, references to child abuse (physical and emotional) and neglect, references to spousal abuse

“Alrighty, Mr. Bouchard, Mr. Deshpande,” the nurse says, looping her stethoscope around her shoulders as she looks at David and Max. “Which one of you boys is going first?”

Max slouches further into his rigid plastic seat, fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie. He wants nothing more than slink back home and play Minecraft for his allotted two hours. He _certainly_ doesn’t want to be stuck in a dumb doctor’s office for a dumb check-up—it’s not even necessary! He isn’t sick or injured or anything. This excursion is, he’s already decided, a remarkable waste of time and money. 

Clearly, David disagrees. “I’ll go first!” he says cheerfully, hopping up. “Come on, Max. You can watch so you know what to expect.”

Yes, because that’s _exactly_ how he wanted to spend his Wednesday afternoon. Sighing, Max drags himself after David and the nurse. The door to the waiting room swings shut behind him with an ominous _thump,_ and Max slumps against the wall as David toes his shoes off and hops onto the scale for the nurse to check his weight and height. After that, she leads them into the exam room. David hops onto the table, and Max sits in yet another uncomfortable plastic chair. 

Max keeps his apathetic mask in place, studying the walls with feigned boredom as the nurse checks David’s vital signs and runs through a questionnaire with him. As soon as she leaves to fetch the doctor, Max says, rather spitefully, “Seriously, this is dumb. She could have taken one look at you and figured out that you were a perfectly healthy, functional adult.”

“You can’t know everything from one look,” David points out, swinging his legs off of the side of the table. He looks like a little kid, sitting up there. “They need to make sure I’m fit enough to handle you, little man.”

“You spend three months dealing with ten useless bastards like me, and in far more arduous conditions,” Max gripes. “The hell’s changed since then?”

“Ideally, nothing—but the state can’t just assume that. I still have to prove it.”

“Waste of time,” Max repeats. 

“Do you want to play on my phone so you aren’t bored?”

Max nods, thrusting a hand out. David drops his phone into it, and Max quickly busies himself with his Minecraft world. A few minutes later, an old woman in a white coat steps into the room. Max pretends to keep his focus on mining iron ore, but he pays close attention as the woman nears David.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bouchard,” she says, reaching out to shake his hand. She turns to smile at Max, too, and he frowns back at her over the top of the phone.“And good afternoon to you, too, Mr. Deshpande. We’re just in for a couple of routine physicals, is that right?”

“Right you are,” David says, leaning forward earnestly. 

“Well, I’m Dr. Erin. I’ll be doing your physical today, but we’ll have one of our pediatricians come in to look at Max. So, first things first, how are we feeling today? Any pain anywhere, or unusual symptoms cropping up?”

“Nope! Healthy as a horse, ma’am,” David says. 

“I’m certainly glad to hear it. Can you open your mouth for me and say ‘aaah,’ please?”

David aaahs for her, and she peeks into his mouth. Max viciously beats a skeleton away from his iron mine, then pauses the game so he can side-eye the doctor’s actions. She uses her stethoscope on David’s back, chest, and stomach, then has him lay out on the table (which he is far too tall for, Max realizes) and presses across his abdomen. Max wrinkles his nose. None of this looks like fun at all. She checks his reflex by whacking his knee with a hammer (ow? Max suspects that hurts, since David kicks at her), then shines a little light into his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. She has him squeeze her hands and show off the range of motion in his gangly limbs and then, lastly, she turns her attention to the bruising around his neck.

“Oh, dear,” she says, tsking her tongue. The bruises have faded remarkably well—they’re fading into greens and yellows, now. David grimaces when her hands near his throat, and Max gives up on pretending to pay attention to Minecraft. He keeps his eyes locked on David and the doctor, nerves crackling through him. David sees him watching and offers him an encouraging smile that does shit-all to soothe him. “How’d you get these?”

“Bit of a rough story,” David says, rubbing a hand sheepishly over the bruises once the doctor’s hands move away. “I, uh, got into a little disagreement a few weeks ago—but the police already know about it, as does the DSS and Max’s social worker. The emergency room saw me for it right after it happened and I’m A-okay!”

“They are healing well,” Dr. Erin allows, “and if they aren’t causing you any pain, you should be fine. You haven’t had any trouble breathing, swallowing, or talking?”

“Nope. I’m one lucky ducky.”

“I’d say. Injuries like this can be very serious.”

Max swallows hard, his grip on the phone tightening. A skeleton slaughters his player.

Once Dr. Erin has finally finished, she stands back, jots something down on her clipboard, and says, “Healthy as a horse, otherwise.Your vitals all look great, no signs of any abnormalities, and you have full range of motion and cognitive function. You’ve got a clean bill of health here.”

“Oh, that’s really phenomenal, doctor, thank you. Do you send the results to the DSS or do I need to take a copy to them?”

“I’ll go ahead and send them for you, don’t worry.” Dr. Erin smiles at him, then glances over at Max. “Mr. Deshpande, do you want Mr. Bouchard to stay here during your exam, or would you like him to wait in the waiting room?”

“Uh,” Max says, setting David’s phone in his lap. Shit. He doesn’t want to look like a coward and force David to stay, but he also really doesn’t want to be left alone with a stranger in a hospital room again. He’s pretty sick of that. “He can stay. I don’t really give a shit.”

Dr. Erin blinks at his phrasing, but she doesn’t escort David out when she leaves, so Max considers it a mission accomplished. He turns his attention back to the phone. David comes to sit next to him as they wait for the nurse’s return, and Max tries to ignore the way his shoulders automatically want to relax when David is safe and sound beside him. He hunches them up higher to compensate. 

“What are you playing?” David asks.

“Minecraft.”

“What’s that?”

“A game.”

“What kind of game?”

“A video game. You know, watching and figuring shit out usually works better than a full-on interrogation. It’s less annoying, that’s for sure.”

Max angles the phone so David can see the screen more easily, then continues to play. Anxiety bubbles in his stomach as he goes to recollect the inventory he’d dropped when the skeleton had killed him. God, he does _not_ want any stranger putting their hands on him, but he supposes he doesn’t have much of a choice. At least David is here. David’s more than willing to deck a bitch if they threaten Max, as he had so proved with Max’s papa.

It’s funny. Max never thought he’d have it in him. He really has rubbed off on David, hasn’t he? More so than either of them likes to admit, he thinks.

“Wait, what’s that?” David asks, alarmed.

“It’s just a skeleton. Chill.” Max slaughters it, and he can’t deny that he puffs up a little when he hears David make a little sound of wonder. “This game’s easy as shit. Don’t get too impressed.”

“Did you build all that?” David asks, when Max finally reaches his base. 

“Yeah. It’s not anything super fancy yet, but.” Max hitches up a shoulder in half of a shrug. “It’ll get there. I mean, I don’t know how _fast_ it’ll get there, since somebody’s only letting me play two hours a day, _ahem.”_

David chuckles. “How long did this take you?”

“Mm, seven hours? I spent a lot of time wandering around trying to find a good spot first.”

“Well, that’s really cool, Max. You’re good at building things.”

“Literally all you do is put blocks of digital wood down, it is not that complicated. Five-year-olds play this shit all the time.”

“I don’t just mean in the game—although you seem to be very good at that, too. I mean in general. Like that catapult you built at camp!”

“The one that murdered our mascot?”

“The one that threw our mascot all the way to Spooky Island,” David corrects. “The _platypus_ was the one who killed him, may he rest in peace.”

Max snorts. “Right, of course. Important detail.”

“Do you want to help me build something, someday?”

“Like what?”

“I may have a teensy idea for a little project in the backyard,” David says. “I still have to finish up the blueprints, but I’ll make sure to run them past you before we start anything, so you can tell me everything I’ve done wrong. Think you can do that?”

“David,” Max says, reaching out to set a hand on his arm. “You know nothing in this world makes me happier than telling you you’re wrong.”

David’s smile crinkles up the edges of his eyes. Max tears his gaze away before he gets too tempted to smile back. Fortunately, before David can say anything else, the door swings open and their nurse re-enters the room. 

“Mr. Deshpande,” she says, smiling warmly at them. “It’s your turn, buddy.”

“Fantastic,” Max deadpans.

“Hop up there,” David says, pointing at the table. “It’s okay.”

Max scowls and shoves the phone back at David, scrambling up onto the table. He watches warily as the nurse approaches him with a thermometer.

“I’m gonna check your temperature, okay?” she says. “Open your mouth and hold this under your tongue for a few seconds.”

Max complies, although the thermometer probe jabs uncomfortably at the underside of his tongue. He’s not quite sure what to expect—his mama rarely took his temperature with anything other than the back of her hand, and she sure as hell never took him for a _check-up._ A few seconds later, the thermometer beeps, and the nurse plucks it back out of his mouth. “98.6 Fahrenheit—right on the money.”

Next, she takes his blood pressure and his pulse, then clips a pulse oximeter onto his finger for a few seconds. She jots his vitals down, fiddles around with her computer, and then goes to fetch his doctor. He and David wait for several more minutes. Max keeps his shoulders hunched and a frown on his face, playing with the paper lining over the exam table. The doctor who enters the room next isn’t Dr. Erin—instead, she’s a brisk little woman with hair ever redder than David’s. 

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” she says. “I’m Dr. Kervin, Max’s pediatrician.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Kervin.” David hops up, reaching to shake her hand. “I’m David Bouchard. I’m Max’s foster father.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bouchard. Now, let’s take a look at you, huh, Max?” She turns to face him, and he watches her carefully as she nears him. She pulls her stethoscope off, settling the earpieces into her ears and holding the diaphragm towards him. “I’m going to use this to listen to your heart and lungs, so just sit up straight and take a few deep breaths for me.”

Max obeys, wincing as he feels the cold press of the stethoscope through his thin shirt. She runs it over several spots on his chest, then does the same to his back. David looks encouragingly at him the whole time, and Max glowers at him for it. He doesn’t need David’s encouragement to get through this stupid shit, although if David tried to leave him, Max is pretty sure he’d—well, he’s pretty sure something unpleasant would happen. He’d really rather not risk it.

“Your heart and lungs sound great,” Dr. Kervin announces, looping her stethoscope around her neck again. “I’m gonna take a quick peek at your eyes, ears, and throat now. Just hold still for me, and try not to blink.”

Max’s mouth twists as she touches his face—holy _fuck_ he hates that. His fingers dig into the table as she fiddles with his ears, then blinds him with her penlight. As soon as she’s done, he brings his hands up to rub his eyes, scowling. Then she reaches for a popsicle stick. 

“Can you open your mouth and say ‘aaah’ for me?”

Max reluctantly opens his mouth, keeping a close eye on her as she peeks inside. Then she has the nerve to put the popsicle stick inside of his mouth, pressing his tongue down. He fights the urge to bite down on it and push her away, although he can’t quite prevent the nervous shiver that rolls down his spine. She quickly withdraws the stick and throws it away.

“Everything looks really good there, too. We may have a few issues, but nothing too serious. I’ll go over all the results with you both in just a moment.” Dr. Kervin scribbles on her clipboard, then pats the table. “If you’ll lay down, I’ll take a look at your stomach. It shouldn’t hurt, don’t worry.”

Man, it just keeps getting worse, doesn’t it? Max tentatively lays back on the table, grinding his teeth nervously as she presses the stethoscope to his stomach. Then she palpates her hands across his stomach and abdomen—it doesn’t _hurt,_ but it certainly isn’t comfortable. He bites the inside of his cheek, curling his left hand into a fist and taking a deep, shaky breath.

“You’re doing great, Max,” David says softly. 

Max flips him off and refuses to admit (even to himself) that David’s comfort makes him feel even the slightest bit better.

“Alright, bud, you can sit back up. I’m gonna check your reflexes with this.” Dr. Kervin holds up a small rubber hammer. “I’m gonna tap your knee with it. While I do that, can you tell me what twelve plus one minus seven is?”

Max’s brow furrows. The fuck…? “Uh, it’s—” 

Dr. Kervin taps his knee, and Max cuts off sharply as his leg jerks of its own accord. Okay, that is some weird shit. He rubs his knee, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at her.

“It’s six,” he says. 

Dr. Kervin moves to his other leg. “What about nine plus—”

“That trick’s only gonna work once,” Max says tersely, folding his arms across his chest. “Just do it.”

So she whacks his knee again—there’s less of a kick, this time, but she seems satisfied anyway. “Reflexes look sharp. Now, can you squeeze my hand with your left hand?”

Dr. Kervin holds her hand out. Max glances back at David, who nods at him, then reaches forward to take her hand. He squeezes—not too gently and not too roughly, he hopes. 

“Good,” Dr. Kervin says. “Really good, Max. I’m gonna push down on your shoulders, now. You just try to lift them while I do.”

Max is really not about all of this _touching._ He cringes as she moves behind him, settling her hands on his shoulders and pressing gently. He shrugs against the weight, and she releases him a few seconds later. Next, she cups her hands on either side of his face and has him turn his head against them. Then she has him climb off of the table and balance on one leg. He’s beginning to feel like a damned circus monkey, and he’s outraged that _David_ didn’t have to go through all of this shit.

“How come _his_ wasn’t this bad?” Max demands, pointing accusingly at David as Dr. Kervin checks his vision with an eye chart. 

“Because he’s been up-to-date on his physical examinations for the last five years,” Dr. Kervin explains. “You, meanwhile, have very little in the way of medical records. When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

Max shrugs. “Well, I haven’t needed to go because I’m perfectly healthy—as you can clearly _see.”_

Dr. Kervin hums thoughtfully. Then she turns to David, clapping her hands together. “Well, we’re almost done. Given his history and current medical state, however, I’d really like to get a blood sample.”

_“What?”_

“Oh—well, uh, do what you need to do,” David says, looking apologetically at Max. “We’ll do whatever we need to to make sure he’s healthy.”

“No we will not,” Max says, glaring at the both of them. “I don’t want a blood test. What the hell do you even need one for? What, you can’t tell me if I’m sick or not without some fancy lab test?”

“Blood tests are especially useful for us when we need to monitor organ function and nutrition,” Dr. Kervin explains, keeping her voice calm. “I would like to get one for _you,_ because according to your DSS chart, you hurt yourself with a needle that was used on another person in extremely unhygienic conditions. That puts you at risk for a swathe of blood-borne illnesses, and we need to make sure you don’t have any of them.”

Max sees David’s face change almost instantly at the words, morphing from concern into full-on horror as he comprehends the words _another person’s needle_ and _blood borne illnesses_. Well, shit. “He—he what?” David asks, his voice weak. “Max, you—a needle? You—”

“It’s not a big deal,” Max snaps. “It happened forever go, and my mama already got tested for all that shit. I don’t have any of it.”

“We’re going to make sure,” Dr. Kervin repeats firmly. “I’m going to go get a few things. I’ll be back in just a moment.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and Max digs his fingers into the table, seething. How fucking _dare_ she say that in front of David. And now she wants to _stab_ him? This is ridiculous, this is just—this is fucking stupid and Max is _done._ His heart thunders in his chest, and his hands shake. His stomach ties itself into a knot, and he’s fairly certain he’s going to vomit at some point within the next five minutes. He needs to get out of here, and he needs to get out _now._

“Max, I’m so sorry,” David starts. “I don’t even know what to—

“I want to leave,” Max interrupts, sliding off of the table. His knees tremble under him.

“We can’t do that. We need to stay here. I know needles can be scary, and it might hurt a little, but it’s important to—”

“I said I want to leave right now!” Max shouts, baring his teeth. _“Right fucking now, David!”_

David moves to kneel in front of him, his hands held out placatingly. “Max, there’s no reason to shout. I understand that you’re scared. I—”

“You don’t understand _jack shit_ . If you did, you wouldn’t be making me stay here. She’s got all the information she needs! I want to go back home now. I’m tired, I’m hungry, I have homework to do, and _I’m fucking sick of this.”_

“I know, I know, but we can’t—”

“What do you mean we can’t?” Max demands. “You’ve got a truck, don’t you? We can walk right out of here and leave. They can’t force you to stay, you’re an adult!”

“No, they can’t force me to stay, but they can certainly take you away from me if I don’t get you the care that you need,” David says, his voice suddenly fierce, and Max falters. “I will not let that happen. I don’t want to lose you, Max. I want you. I told you that, didn’t I? I want you to stay with me, and I think you want that, too—if that’s the case, then you’re going to need to get through this.”

Max hesitates, tearing his eyes from David’s face and fixating them on his sneakers, instead. His throat tightens. He fumbles for words for a long moment, but doesn’t find any that make sense. Instead, he whines miserably, kicking the floor. David exhales softly, then reaches forward to touch his shoulder. When Max doesn’t jerk away, he tugs gently, guiding Max to lean against him. Max buries his face against David’s shoulder, taking a deep, shuddering breath that smells like Sleepy Peak Elementary and cheap cologne. 

“It’s not fair,” Max finally whispers as David’s fingers begin to card through his hair. He brings his hands up, balling them into David’s shirt. “None of it’s fucking fair.”

“No, it’s not,” David agrees quietly. 

“I don’t want to be here.”

“I know.”

“I just want to go home.”

David leans their heads together. “Listen, I’ll help you with your homework tonight. We’ll get it done fast so you don’t have to stress about it. Then we’ll pick up something to eat on the way home so you don’t have to wait for dinner. You can go to your room and rest as soon as you’ve finished eating. Okay?”

“Okay,” Max mumbles.

“Are you scared of needles?”

“I don’t like them, but they’re not awful. I just— I fuckin’ hate it here. I hate Dr. Kervin.”

David makes a soft, sad noise. “I’m sorry. I know this is stressful for you, and I don’t like that you have to go through it, but it _is_ important to know if anything’s wrong so we can help you feel better.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Max reaches up to rub his eyes. His stomach still turns queasily, and his heart patters an uneven tempo in his chest. “I feel gross.”

“Gross how?”

“I might throw up on Dr. Kervin. It’d serve her right.”

“Here, sit down.” David guides him to sit in one of the chairs. He sits in his own chair, angling himself to face Max. Their knees knock inelegantly together. “Take a deep breath, alright? In through the nose, hold for three, out through the mouth.”

“This is stupid.”

“It’ll make you feel better. You’re breathing too fast. C’mon, with me. In through the—there, you’ve got it.” David takes a long, deep breath and Max copies him. He repeats the movement several times, then offers Max a soft smile. “Good job, kiddo. Keep breathing like that. You’re doing great.”

When Dr. Kervin returns, Max’s careful breathing stutters. David reaches out, rubbing his back gently, and Max doesn’t have the energy to shove him away. 

“Alright, Max,” Dr. Kervin says, kneeling in front of him. “Can I see your left arm?”

Max bites his tongue, then holds out his left arm. His fingers shake. Dr. Kervin applies her tourniquet, picks her vein, and swiftly slides the needle in. Max looks away as his blood begins to feel her little vial, the world swirling dizzily around him—but like _hell_ is he gonna pass out here. He’d never live it down. 

Once Dr. Kervin has her damned blood, she sticks a cotton ball into the crook of Max’s elbow and covers it with a Toy Story band-aid. Max slouches down in his seat, willing the black dots floating in his vision to go away. David pats his shoulder, beaming down at him like the goddamn sun. “You did awesome, Max!” he says. “That was just super.”

Max grunts noncommittally in response.

“Okay, I’m done tormenting you now,” Dr. Kervin promises. Max looks spitefully at her. “The good news is that there are no serious problems I see today, so you can both relax.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” David says. “He’s healthy?”

“For the most part, yes. Of course, the results from the blood test will have a lot of information for us, and it may not all be good.”

“When will we have the results?” David asks, his brow furrowing. 

“Sometime next week. The lab will call—if nothing’s wrong, you won’t need to come back. If we do find something, we’ll sit down for another visit and discuss our options. Now, my primary concern is, fortunately, a pretty easy fix. Max is malnourished.”

Max arches an eyebrow. That’s news to him, although he...well, he can’t say he’s really surprised. Even _he_ knows a diet of chicken-flavored ramen, ravioli, and McDonald’s cheeseburgers aren’t great for a growing body.

“What?” David straightens up, alarmed. “But—but how? He’s been eating well, we’ve been having healthy meals every day, we—”

Dr. Kervin holds her hands out to slow him. “That’s wonderful, really, it is—but Max’s malnourishment is likely a result of his long-term neglect. I doubt he’s been eating well for most of the past ten years. He’s small for his age, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and he doesn’t weigh nearly as much as he should. What you’re doing—healthy, consistent meals—is already going to go a long ways towards helping him, but we can do more.”

“Absolutely we can,” David agrees vehemently, and Max groans.

“I’m going to recommend a high-protein shake at least once a day, ideally twice. You can get that over the counter—Pediasure is a good bet. I also suspect that when the lab results come back, we’re going to find some anemia. I notice you’ve got your hoodie with you. Have you been cold lately, Max, or maybe tired?”

“No more so than usual,” Max mutters.

David winces. “He’s always got a hoodie with him. Even all summer at camp, he hardly took it off. I thought it was a comfort item, but—were you cold, Max? The whole time?”

“Not _all_ the time. It was hot as balls out there when you made us hike and do obstacle courses and _ugh.”_

“Well, if Mr. Max here _is_ anemic,” Dr. Kervin says, “I’ll prescribe him an iron supplement to take for a few months. Hopefully, once his diet has a steady source of protein, he won’t need the supplement. We can revisit that later. Now, I do have one other concern.”

David leans forward, his hands braced anxiously on his knees.

“It looks to me like Max has a few cavities. Again, that’s a pretty easy fix. You’ll want to get him set up with a dentist as soon as you can, and you wanna make sure he’s brushing his teeth twice a day.”

Oh, _great._ Max’s scowl deepens. 

“Will do, doctor,” David says, nodding firmly. 

When they’re finally, _finally_ allowed to leave the hellscape that is the Sleepy Peak Health Clinic, Max bolts to the truck. He yanks on the door handle, glowering at David when the door hasn’t already been unlocked. David twirls his keys around his fingers, then tosses them to Max as he strolls across the parking lot. Max snags them out of the air and fumbles to unlock the doors, then flings himself into the backseat. 

“That,” he says, when David slides into the driver’s seat, “was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me and you owe me _big time,_ camp man.”

“Thanks for putting up with all of that, Max. I know it sucked for you.”

Max tosses the keys at the back of his head, and he yelps. “Sucked is putting it lightly. You have to do that every year?”

“Every two years, usually,” David says. “It’s, uh, usually not so involved. You’ve really never had a check-up before?”

“Not that I can remember. I mean, I’m sure I did when I was a baby.” Max shrugs, pulling David’s phone out of his pocket. “Had all my vaccinations, anyway, although I think that was mostly just so Mama could get rid of me at school for most of the day.”

David scrubs his face with his hands. “I just—I—w-well, hey, from now on you’ll have yearly check-ups! We’ll make sure you’re in tip-top shape.”

“Fucking fantastic.”

David takes a deep breath, then starts the truck and glances up to smile at Max in the rearview mirror. “Hey, I promised you dinner, didn’t I? Where do you want to go?”

“McDonald’s. I want a double cheeseburger, fries, and don’t skip me on the ketchup.”

“Well, er, we did just go over how eating healthy meals is—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you can get back on your health kick tomorrow. Right now I just want processed meat and grease.” Max claps his hands. “Make it happen.”

David chuckles, pulling out onto the town’s main road. “Alright, alright, just for tonight. We’ll stop by the store on the way home and buy some Pediasure while we’re out, and you’ve gotta have some of that, too.”

Max wrinkles his nose.

“It comes in chocolate flavor,” David sing-songs. “Just like chocolate miiiilk.”

“Probably tastes like shit. You can’t just replicate the flavor of chocolate milk _and_ make it healthy without losing quality.”

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘till you try it.”

“I’m gonna knock _you_ here in a minute if you don’t get me some fuckin’ food.”

“Sounds like _somebody’s_ hangry.”

David mercifully pulls through the McDonald’s drive-thru a few minutes later, and Max wolfs down his double cheeseburger on the drive to the store. They sit in the store’s parking lot while they finish their meal. Max drowns each soggy fry in ketchup before dropping it into his mouth, then crumples up his burger wrapper and pelts it at the back of David’s head.

“What is with you and the throwing things today?” David asks, plucking the wrapper up and dropping it into the paper bag their burgers had come in.

“Your head’s a good target from back here,” Max says, wiping his greasy fingers off on his jeans. “Big, circular, red.”

David rubs the back of his head self-consciously. 

Max snorts and kicks the back of David’s seat. “C’mon, bullseye, let’s go. I was also promised rest and recuperation, so let’s grab this knock-off chocolate milk shit and get home.”

In the end, David purchases all three flavors of Pediasure (“just so you can figure out which kind you like best!”) before driving them home. David heads for the kitchen to stick the Pediasure in the fridge, and Max heads for the stairs. Once he’s safely hidden away in his room, he collapses onto his bed and groans into his pillow. Mr. Honeynuts sympathetically tips over against his arm, and Max unravels just enough to drag him into a tight hug.

David’s phone chirps in his pocket. He tugs it out and rolls over to see his friends’ group chat (THE THREE BASTARDS >:D) blinking notifications at him, and a wry smile tugs at his face as he opens the messaging app to see what Nikki and Neil have been saying.

Nikki: MAX!!! did you survive the dctr? :o

Neil: Jeez, it wasn’t a death sentence, Nikki. I’m sure he’s fine.

Neil: ...you are fine, right, Max?

Max: yeah, i'm fine.

Nikki: YAY YAY YAY

Nikki: how was it??? i bet it was awful!!!!!

Nikki: i hate doctors >:(

Max: it was a bunch of useless bullshit, but it could have been worse

Neil: So you got a clean bill of health, I presume?

Neil: Other than your broken arm, I mean.

Neil: Which, by the way, I repeat:

Neil: Fuck your dad.

Nikki: yeAH, FUCK MAX’S DAD!!!!! 

Nikki: WE SHOULD BREAK HIS ARM AND SEE HOW HE LIKES IT!

Nikki: but u were healthy other than that right?? did they give u shots?

Max snorts, running his thumb along the side of the phone. They’re both absolutely ridiculous, and he absolutely loves them for it. He has to admit, he likes the attention, but it also makes him feel painfully awkward and uncertain—which, in turn, annoys the shit out of him. Keen to distract them, he bites his bottom lip and answers.

Max: healthy as ever

It’s not _technically_ a lie, now, is it? Despite that, guilt settles beneath his sternum. Ugh. That’s the bad part about giving a shit (even if it’s only a _little_ shit for a _few_ people). He hates it, but not enough to stop caring, now that he’s started. Nikki and Neil mean far, far too much to him. He watches their text bubbles as the both of them type, but before either answers, there’s a knock at his door.

“What?” he shouts.

“Hey, bud. Can I open the door?”

“Sure.”

David swings the door open and pokes his head inside. “Are you talking to Nikki and Neil?”

“Texting, yeah—and it has _not_ been two hours yet, so don’t even start,” Max says, looking accusingly at him. “I’m getting every damn minute I’m due.”

David holds his hands up placatingly. “I’m not here to take it. You’ve still got an hour left. I was just going to tell you that if you want to invite Nikki and Neil to the amusement park on Saturday, you can.”

“Really?” Hope bubbles to life in Max’s chest. He could see his friends again? He could plot with them, he could talk with them, he could _ride rollercoasters with them?_

“Yeah, really! It’ll be super fun, and I know you guys haven’t seen each other in a while. If you need me to talk to their parents, I can.”

Max wraps his hands around the phone, studying David for a moment. Something warm and hopeful and very unfamiliar settles into his chest as he does. There’s no way he can _seriously_ be this lucky, right? Something’s going to go wrong soon. This sweet, quiet life is going to fall apart before it’s even fully begun. But until then—god, until then, he’ll take what he can get, especially if it means he gets to cling to his friends for a few more months.

“...thanks,” he says quietly, honestly. “I’ll let them know.”

David beams at him, eyes shining. “You’re more than welcome, kiddo. I’ll be downstairs if you need me—as soon as you’re done with the phone, let’s start on your homework.”

He shuts the door behind him as he leaves, and Max squeezes Mr. Honeynuts to him in another giddy hug. 

“Did you hear that?” he whispers to the bear. “We get to see Nikki and Neil! _Hell yes!”_

He whips his attention back to the phone, where his friends are still chatting.

Nikki: AWESOME!!!!!!!!!

Neil: Well, glad to hear you’re not dying.

Neil: I think Nikki would have a breakdown and run away to become a hermit or something.

Nikki: hell yeah!!!! 

Nikki: honestly, we don’t need to wait for max to die for that

Nikki: no offense max

Nikki: being a hermit would just be so cool!!! living out in the wild, nobody to bother you, no standards

Nikki: aaaaah, that’s the dream

Max: god, you sound like david.

Nikki: :D

Max: anyway, do you guys wanna hang out this weekend? because i can pull some strings on this end and make it happen if you’ll pull strings on your ends and make it happen.

Neil: Seriously?

Nikki: FOR REAL!!!!! HECK YES I WANNA HANG OUT!!!

Nikki: uh

Nikki: how?

Neil: Yeah, how? I live three hours away from Sleepy Peak.

Nikki: and i live two!!

Max: neil, you’re still making your parents compete for your love right?

Neil: Always.

Max: ask one of them to drive you up to sleepy peak on friday for brownie points. you can stay with me and david for the weekend and we’ll drive you back sunday night.

Neil: Did David say that was okay?

Max: don’t worry about that. i run this goddamn household.

Max: nikki, since your mom doesn’t give a shit about you we might just have to pick you up. can you send me your address later?

Max: i’m also assuming, given your mom’s lack of shit-giving, she won’t care where you are on the weekend. we can get you friday after school and bring you back to sleepy peak and you can stay the weekend too. you guys both live to the east, right?

Neil: Right.

Nikki: yep!!

Max: then we can drop nikki off on the way to drop neil off. easy.

Max: any questions?

Nikki: what are we gonna do? blow stuff up? :D

Max: blowing stuff up is never out of the question.

Max: but david wants us to go to an amusement park. we’ll probably be bringing gwen with us, too.

Nikki: wait, an amusement park like a ROLLERCOASTER amusement park?

Max: would i disgrace myself by going to any other kind?

Nikki: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Nikki: I'M SO EXCITED !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Neil: Of course you are.

Neil: Hang on, let me ask my dad. 

Nikki: I’LL GO ASK MY MOM!! BRB!!

As Max waits for their replies, he kicks his shoes off and cracks his neck. Tension sits heavy in his shoulders and along his back—school had been a bitch, as per usual, and the doctor’s visit certainly hadn’t relaxed him. Now he has the dentist to dread, too. His mouth twists into a grimace as he thinks about it. He hasn’t ever been to a dentist, but he’s heard the horror stories, and he wants nothing to do with it. 

...but if that’s what necessary to stay here, with David, then he’ll suck it up. He’s sure he’s been through worse.

Nikki: my mom says it’s okay as long as you guys pick me up!!!

Max: does she want to talk to david?

Max: wait no, don’t answer that.

Max: of course she doesn’t, because that’s something an actual, responsible parent would want to do.

Neil: And on that line of conversation, my dad wants to talk to yours.

Neil: WAIT NO

Neil: NOT YOUR DAD THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT

Neil: TO YOUR DAVID

Neil: HE WANTS TO TALK TO DAVID

Max: fuck you neil

Max: i’ll go get him

Snorting, Max steps into the hallway. He finds David in his own room, plucking idly at his guitar while he watches Brave Wilderness on his laptop. Max stops just outside of his doorway, clearing his throat. David glances over at him, a smile breaking over his face again. _God,_ it’s weird that people smile when they see him—or, you know, react in any way positive. Even after three months, he’s still unnerved by it.

“Neil’s dad wants to talk to you,” Max says, holding out the phone. “Don’t fuck this up for me.”

“Of course not.” David takes his phone. “What’s the plan?”

“Neil’s dad is gonna drop him off Friday night and they’ll spend the weekend. We’ll drop them both back off on Sunday night. It’s a pretty long drive, but it’s not like they live halfway across the continent.”

“How long of a drive?”

Max shrugs. “Like, three hours for Neil? Nikki’s closer.”

“Three hours one way?” David chokes. 

“Yeah.” Max narrows his eyes. “Is that gonna be a problem? Because you’re the one that suggested this whole thing and it’d be pretty shitty of you to backtrack on your word now. I might just start associating you with the other untrustworthy adults in my life if you do that. I mean, who _actually_ keeps their word in this world, right? Go ahead. Prove me right, I dare you. I _want_ you to do it.”

“N-no, no, it’s no problem. We’ll just have to leave early Sunday afternoon so we can get you home by your bedtime. I’ll go over the details with everyone’s parents. Did Candy want to talk, too?”

Max rolls his eyes. “You know she didn’t.”

“...I’ll call her anyway,” David says, setting his jaw. “Don’t worry. I’ll sort everything out for the trip. You can go ahead and start on your homework, if you want.”

Max returns to his room, and he does start on his homework—it’s not like he has anything else to do, with David in possession of the phone. Today’s homework is to analyze the relationship Brian has with his parents in _Hatchet._ It’s a shitty relationship, is what it is. Max can relate. He finishes quickly (reading homework is vastly easier than math) and jams his papers back into his bag before going to find David. He’s still got at least forty minutes left on the phone, and he plans to use every second of it.

“...a wonderful girl, really,” David says as Max pokes his head around the doorframe. David glances up at him, waving. Max takes that as an invitation and steps inside, sitting down on David’s bed and swinging his legs. “You’re very lucky. Hm? ...oh, yes, I thought so...no, not at all! ...probably around five that evening, if that works for you…”

As Max listens to David’s half of the conversation, he lets his eyes roam over the room. He finds himself studying the pictures along the walls again: David’s mother, David’s grandparents, David’s campers, David’s friends. He wonders, vaguely, why David hasn’t introduced Max to his mother. It seems like exactly the sickly sweet family thing he’d want to do. Maybe he doesn't like her…?

Pfft. As if.

David sets the phone down with a satisfied nod. “There! Everything’s all arranged. Carl is going to drive Neil to Nikki’s house, so we’ll pick Nikki and Neil up at the same time—probably around five, if we leave right after school. We’ll pack sandwiches and snacks to eat on the drive home. They’ll stay the weekend, and then we’ll drive them both back to Nikki’s house on Sunday. Carl will pick Neil up there, too, so it’ll be a four-hour round trip for us.”

“Cool.” Max swings his legs, drumming his heels on David’s bedframe. He points at the phone again. “Still mine.”

David hands it to him. “Forty minutes left. Did you get your homework done?”

“Yeah.” Max slides off of the bed, walking towards the door—then he pauses, glancing back at David. “Your mom, do you hate her?”

David splutters. “W-what? No! What on earth gave you that idea?”

“You never talk about her. There aren’t any text messages with her, no voicemails, no calls. Kinda weird, for somebody so obsessed with getting people’s approval,” Max points out, holding up David’s phone. 

“...it’s complicated,” David murmurs, “but I do love her.”

“Does she love you?”

David doesn’t respond. Some low, angry thing stirs in Max’s stomach—but for once, it isn’t directed at the lanky, go-lucky bastard sitting in front of him. 

“I love my mom,” Max says, a tad defensively. He knows it doesn’t make sense. He knows it’s stupid, knows it’s childish, knows it’s useless and pointless and idiotic and here he is, loving her anyway. He doesn’t know how to _not._ He’s always loved her. She was the first person to touch him, the first person to whisper his name into his curls, the first person to sing him to sleep and rock him after nightmares and cook him dinner, even if that dinner was only canned Campbell’s soup in a plastic bowl. 

“That’s good, Max,” David says, a small smile on his face. “That’s really good.”

“I think she loved me, too—at least at first. Maybe she still does, a little. I mean, she let me leave even though she knew Papa’d be angry, so I guess...I guess she does love me, she’s just pretty shit at showing it.” He rubs his thumb across the phone’s screen, where the notifications for his friends’ group chat are blinking again. “Or maybe she just felt guilty. I dunno. I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

“Max, I’m sure your mother…” David hesitates, then stops. Max appreciates that. “She was brave to let you leave, no matter her reasons.”

“Yeah. She’s pretty brave sometimes. Y’know, I wish—heh. I wish I could have met before Papa beat all that bravery out.”

David winces.

“Anyway, whatever.” Max folds his arms across his chest. “What I mean is I get it. What it’s like to love somebody who doesn’t treat you right, I get it. It’s hard, and it sucks, and there’s only a few things that make it feel better. One of them is chocolate milk. So quit being a pussy and let’s go drink.”

David laughs, standing up and ruffling his hair. “Okay, Max.” His voice is unbearably fond, and Max prickles at the sound of it, marching down the stairs in front of him. “Are you sure you want to share your chocolate milk?”

“Not like I’m gonna use it. I gotta drink that fuckin’ fancy knock-off shit now.”

The two of them settle in at the dining table—Max with his bottle of chocolate Pediasure and David with his mug of chocolate milk. Max sips reluctantly at the Pediasure, preemptively wrinkling his nose, but it’s not _terrible._ It certainly has a chocolate milk flavor, but it’s thicker and grittier. He licks it off of his teeth.

“Not horrific,” he decides after a moment. 

“High praise indeed.”

Max grunts, then takes another sip as David busies himself with his own mug.

“Hey, Max?” David smiles at him. He has a milk mustache. Of course he does. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

For a merciful moment, David keeps quiet and drinks his milk and lets Max text Nikki and Neil in relative peace. The moment doesn’t last long. “I call my mom every mother’s day,” he says, setting his mug down with a gentle _click,_ “and on her birthday. She calls me on Christmas and on my birthday.”

“...that’s it?”

“We’re trying. Things have gotten a lot better than they were, but—better not to push it, I guess.” He drums his fingers on the side of his mug. “What you said today, about how your mom got tested after you were hurt with that needle…”

“Goddamn, I was wondering when you were gonna bring it up. You lasted longer than I thought you would.”

“We don’t have to talk about it, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I don’t give a shit.” Max hitches a shoulder up in a half-shrug. “My mom’s into shooting crack.”

“...shooting crack?”

“Yeah, you know? You melt the crack down with a lighter, drop some cotton in to keep the air bubbles from getting sucked up, and draw it into a syringe. Then you put it into your vein. Instant high.” 

David looks sufficiently horrified, Max thinks. Poor naive fuck.

“Anyway, she left her needle out and I tripped and jabbed myself on it. It wasn’t her fault. She freaked out when I told her.”

“But she didn’t take you to the hospital?”

“No, she went herself. Got tested for a whole bunch of shit. She was negative for all of it, so she knew I would be, too. Of course, try telling _that_ to Dr. Kervin.” Max scowls. “Bitch.”

David takes a deep, shuddery breath. Max gets up and pours him more chocolate milk.

“I’m sorry,” David says, finally.

“What the hell for? It wasn’t your fault. Drink your milk and stop moping, god. You’re in a mood tonight, you know that?”

“Talking to Candy was...difficult.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I figured it would be. She doesn’t appreciate what she’s got in Nikki.” Max finishes off his Pediasure, then tosses the bottle into the trash. “But I guess that’s parents for you. Anyway, I’m out of here. I’ll give you your phone in half an hour, and not a millisecond earlier, so don’t you dare think about rushing me.”

“Okay, bud. Have fun.”

Max leaves David sitting at the table, climbing the stairs and returning to his room. He texts Nikki and Neil for the remainder of his half-hour, then returns the phone to David and goes to shower. Once he’s done, he heads downstairs to find David for what is becoming their nightly ritual. He sits down on the floor in front of the couch, and David settles in on the couch behind him with comb in hand. David brushes the tangles from his damp hair, and Max’s shoulders finally, _finally_ begin to relax.

“Did you brush your teeth?” David asks, gently plucking the comb through the ends of Max’s curls. 

“Ugh.”

“You’ve gotta brush.”

“What’s the point? I already have to go to the dentist.”

“It’ll keep your cavities from getting worse _and_ keep new ones from forming.”

“Half of these are baby teeth and they’re gonna fall out anyway.”

“And half of them are not,” David points out, smoothing his fingers through Max’s curls once he’s combed the knots out. “Besides, cavities in baby teeth hurt just as much as cavities in adult teeth. You don’t want your teeth to hurt, do you?”

“That’s nothing new.”

“Do they hurt now?” David asks, alarm creeping into his voice. 

“Just one of them. It’s not bad, chill.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have gotten you to a dentist sooner!”

“Don’t fuss.” Max scowls, pushing his hands away and standing up. “It pisses me off.”

“What doesn’t?” David asks mournfully. Then he pops up, a smile lighting his face again. “But you know what’ll cheer you up? You get a sticker as soon as I hear vigorous tooth-brushing from upstairs!”

Max arches an eyebrow. “Wait, for real? I get a sticker?”

“Of course. You were very good today.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Not even a little. Unless—” David squints. “—you did something I don’t know about?”

“No, but I was an asshole at the doctor’s office.”

“How so? Which rules did you break?”

“I freaked out and yelled at you.”

“Neither of which is against the rules, although I _do_ prefer not to be yelled at—but you were panicking. I’m not going to hold that against you.”

“I said so many mean things about Dr. Kervin.”

“But not to her face, and so not with the intent to make her feel bad,” David says. “You can express how you feel about people, even if how you feel towards them is wholly negative. Of course, I’d like it if you could do that more politely, but that’s something we’ll have to work up to.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve insulted you at some point today. Given my track record, it was probably multiple points.”

“Oh, probably,” David admits, smiling sheepishly, “but none of those insults were really meant to hurt me, were they? You were just poking fun. I don’t take it personally.”

“How the fuck do you know I didn’t mean to hurt you?”

David’s eyes drop, his smile drooping. “...because I know what it feels like when you do mean to hurt me.”

Max’s stomach boils with sudden shame, his face burning. His heart cramps in his chest, and his breath draws quick and cold around the sudden tightening in his throat. Shit. That—wow, yeah. That makes him feel like actual garbage. What the _fuck_ is happening to him? “Oh.”

“Hey, but it’s okay!” David holds his hands out, forcing his smile back onto his face. “That was a long time ago, and you know all’s forgiven, so there’s no need to feel bad about it. Anyway, you’d better go brush your teeth so I can put that sticker up!”

Max treks up the stairs. His feet feel heavier than usual. A cold, uncomfortable knot sits in his stomach as he brushes his teeth. He...did hurt David, didn’t he? To be fair, he’s hurt David lots of times—but the one time that stands out is that afternoon in the storm, when David’s hands were bloodied by broken flint and furious tears glistened his eyes. He’d hurt David badly, then.

Worse, he thinks, than Papa could have ever done.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe that David still gives a shit about him—but then, David’s always ignored his own well-being in favor of making others happy, hasn’t he? Max rubs his face with his good hand, then smooths back his meticulously-untangled curls. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve any of this, and he’s painfully aware of it. He _certainly_ doesn’t deserve a sticker for today—watching David plaster the sticker up onto his calendar that night feels like a betrayal, and he goes to bed that night sick and cold.


	11. not even the fireflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: references to child abuse + neglect
> 
> thank you all so much for the nice comments on the last chapter !!!! youre all so sweet aaaaaa !!!!

“Here we are!” David says, pulling into the parking lot of a sketchy-looking apartment building. Flaking rust covers the fire escape, and graffiti smears the concrete walls. A scrawny, flea-bitten cat pins its ears as the truck’s headlights wash over it, and then it bolts into the overgrown shrubs along the cracked sidewalk. It looks exactly like Max expected it to. “Pretty, uh—pretty place?”

“You have  _ got  _ to be shitting me,” Max says, hopping out of the truck and slamming the door shut behind him.

“...maybe a little,” David allows. “Stay close, okay?”

Max stays close—god knows if someone jumps out to mug them, Max will need to save David’s scrawny ass. The two of them climb the stairs together, and Max keeps one hand nervously on the safety rail. The rickety wooden steps are a little too familiar for his tastes. Once they reach the landing, Max leads the way to the end of the hall. He hooks a thumb at the door with the tattered welcome mat. 

“243, right?” he asks.

“Right.” David takes a deep breath, then raps his knuckles against the door. From within the apartment, there’s a clatter and a sudden swear, and David winces. “Oops.”

“I got it!” someone shouts from inside, and Max’s heart tightens in his chest, because he  _ knows  _ that voice. It’s bright and loud and wild and it’s everything he’s missed so  _ horribly  _ this past month. The door flies open, and Nikki stumbles to a stop in the doorway. Her eye go round as they land on him.

“Hey, Nik,” Max says, clearing his throat and rocking back on his heels. Cool. He’s gotta play it cool. “Long time no—”

Nikki slams into him, shrieking in delight. “Max! Max Max Max Max!”

Max yelps and stumbles backwards, into David’s legs. David reaches out a hand to steady the both of them, and Max hesitates—then he decides  _ fuck it  _ and he brings his arms up to hug Nikki tightly. Her hair tickles his nose, and she smells like cigarettes and strawberry shampoo. Her arms seize tightly around his waist (tight enough to make him wheeze) and squeeze. 

“What?” someone else asks, annoyance clear in their nasally tone. “I don’t get a hello?”

Max squints through the cloud of teal hair obscuring his vision, then holds out one arm. “Come say hello, dumbass.”

Neil worms his way into their group hug, gangly and awkward and painfully dear to Max’s heart. “Hello, dumbass,” Neil says, and Max snorts and yanks his right arm out of its sling so he can thunk it clumsily around Neil’s back. Neil allows this for a few more seconds, then worms his way out of the hug. “Okay, okay, okay, I think that’s enough clinginess for now.”

“Yeah.” Max clears his throat, jamming his hands into his pockets. He’s almost too happy to be embarrassed by such overt affection—almost. “It’s, uh, nice to see you guys.”

“It sure is!” David says, crouching next to them with a brilliant smile. “I missed you two. How’ve you been?”

“David!” Nikki pounces at him, next, toppling him back onto his ass with a surprised yelp. He laughs, hugging her to his chest as she winds her arms around his neck—but Max doesn’t miss the subtle, uncomfortable tightening around his eyes as she squeezes there.

“Nik, off, seriously,” Max says, prying her away his noodle of a guardian.

“Nice to see you alive,” Neil says, folding his arms across his chest and looking down at David. “Not gonna lie, I kinda thought Max would’ve smothered you with a pillow by now.”

“Not yet!” David says cheerfully, hopping up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to your parents. Why don’t you kids come inside?”

“C’mon, I’ll show you my room,” Nikki says, grabbing Max’s and Neil’s hands and dragging them into her apartment. “It’s  _ super  _ awesome!”

Max catches a glimpse of Carl and Candy on the couch as Nikki hauls them through the living room. They’re sitting unfortunately close together—Max can’t imagine Neil is pleased about that. Nikki skids to a stop inside a tiny, messy room with lumps of dirty laundry and stacks of scribbled-on papers scattered around every available surface.

“Ta-da!” she says, spinning in a circle. “This is my home base. What do you think?”

“I  _ think  _ you should Marie Kondo this bitch,” Neil says, wrinkling his nose as he flops back onto Nikki’s bed. The mattress springs squeal in protest. “But we’ve already been over that.”

Nikki sets her hands on her hips. “Yeah, because you wouldn’t know taste if it bit you in the butt. This is my natural habitat! Max, what do you think?”

Max rakes his eyes across the green walls, the stained carpet, the ugly wolf quilt hanging half-off of the bed. A hoard of stuffed animals loom in the space above the closet—which is mostly full of empty hangers, seeing as Nikki’s entire wardrobe has made its home on the floor. “Yeah,” he says. “It looks like a bomb went off in here.”

“Exactly,” Nikki says, her eyes shining with delight. “A  _ Nikki- _ bomb.”

Neil gestures towards a sooty black smear against the far wall. “And a few  _ real  _ ones.”

“That was an accident! ...kind of.” Nikki sits down on her bed, patting the mattress beside her. Max shoves Neil’s legs out of the way and sits. “Anyway, we have more important business to discuss.”

Max arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Neil points at Max’s right arm.  _ “That.  _ You know we have to sign it. That’s a vital friend tradition.”

“Heck yes it is,” Nikki says, snagging a red marker from her desk and throwing a yellow marker to Neil. She holds her hand out expectantly. “Arm.”

Max rolls his eyes, but he settles his arm into her hand and lets her scrawl across his elbow. Neil jots his own signature along Max’s palm. Once they’ve finished, he tucks his arm back into its sling and scoots further onto the bed so he can lean against the wall. 

“Happy?” he asks them both wryly.

“True happiness is a fleeting illusion,” Neil says, “but yes.”

“Definitely.” Nikki scoots to sit beside him. “Does it hurt?”

“What, my arm?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nah, not really. It was sore for a little while, but now it just itches sometimes.” He picks at the edge of his cast. “This thing annoys the fuck out of me.”

“When do you get it off?” Neil asks, climbing up to flop out across their legs. 

“Not soon enough,” Max grumbles. “Right before Halloween, I think.”

“Your dad’s a dick,” Neil says, very reasonably. “I would like to crush his face and make him eat his own teeth.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I lost a tooth!” Nikki opens her mouth, pointing to a brand-new gap where one of her molars should be. 

“Well, that is something I didn’t know,” Max concedes. 

“Seriously?” Neil sits up, examining her mouth closely. “The next one’s already growing in.”

“Sure is. I knocked the first one out when I was playing kickball,” Nikki says, grinning. That explains, Max supposes, the scrapes he sees on her elbows and knees. “You guys should’ve been there. Hey, maybe we can play at your house! I’ll bring my ball.”

“Excuse me, but I’d like to  _ keep  _ my molars,” Neil protests.

“Don’t be such a pussy, Neil,” Max says. 

David pokes his head around the corner before Neil can retort. “Knock-knock!”

“You don’t  _ say  _ knock-knock, you use your hand and you actually  _ knock-knock,”  _ Max says. “Seriously, man. It’s like you’re trying to be lame.”

“Well, it got your attention, didn’t it? So it worked the same as a regular knock.” David sets his hands on his hips, beaming at all three of them. “Are you guys ready to hit the road? I packed some dinner for us all to eat on the way back to Sleepy Peak. Go say bye to your parents. They’re really gonna miss you.”

“Extremely unlikely, given that they’re probably going to be fucking each other all weekend,” Neil grouches as he stalks past David and back towards the living room. David’s face pales with horror. 

Max follows his friends into the living room, standing awkwardly by the door while he waits for them to finish their goodbyes. Carl ruffles Neil’s hair, despite Neil’s attempts to swat him away, and offers him a cajoling round of goodbyes. Candy, meanwhile, kisses Nikki’s cheek and tells her to, “behave, now, sugarbutt. I don’t wanna have to deal with no lawsuits again.”

As soon as they can, the three of them burst out of the apartment. Max snags David’s keys from his pocket and leads the charge to the truck, although he slows some when he reaches the stairs and keeps a hand hovering over the rails just in case he trips. Nikki bounds ahead of him in his hesitation, jumping down the stairs two at a time and squealing with excitement. 

“I win!” she shouts when she reaches the truck, slapping her hand down on the hood. “Dibs on first pick for dinner.”

“You don’t have to pick. David assigned them all.” Max unlocks the doors, climbing into the back seat. His friends squish in after him—it’s a tight fit, and Neil is probably tall enough to ride in the front seat, but none of them are inclined to separate quite yet. He twists around to open the truck’s back window, reaching down to open the cooler that rests in the truck’s bed. He fishes out four brown paper bags with names scrawled on them in loopy green marker. Each name has a little smiley face at the end. “Here. Dinner. It’s better than the slop Quartermaster served, anyway.”

Nikki tears her bag open first. She dumps the contents out on her lap—a sandwich with hazelnut-marshmallow filling and not a single crust to be found, sliced strawberries, green bell pepper strips that will very likely be ignored, and a juice box. “Oooh! Is that  _ nutella?  _ David, you precious bastard!”

“Not bad,” Neil admits, opening his bag more carefully and pulling out a turkey-cheese-and-jelly-because-Neil’s-secretly-a-fucking-weirdo sandwich. An orange (already carefully unpeeled) exits the bag next, followed by a handful of yellow bell pepper strips and another juice box.

Max tosses David’s bag and keys into his seat, then opens his own bag to find a turkey sandwich complete with lettuce, tomato, and onion—no doubt David’s desperate attempt to shove more nutrients down his throat. His bell pepper strips are of the red variety. A ziploc baggie full of blueberries sits at the bottom of the bag, next to a bottle of Pediasure. Max carefully tears the label off before he pulls the bottle out.

“Alright, kiddos!” David says, hopping into the car and moving his bag to the passenger’s seat. “Are we all ready to go?”

When they all chorus their agreement—albeit with varying levels of enthusiasm—the truck rumbles to life and they head for the open road. Max is pretty sick of being in this damn truck. He’s already been in it for two hours, and it’s another two hours until they reach Sleepy Peak. But for his friends? Fuck, for his friends, it’s worth every second.

About ten minutes down the highway, Nikki says, “Hey, David? I gotta go pee.”

Make that two hours and ten minutes until Sleepy Peak.

* * *

“And this is my room,” Max says, opening his door and leading Nikki and Neil inside. He’d hidden Mr. Honeynuts under his bed before school that morning, and as far as he can tell, there’s nothing else potentially humiliating out in the open. The camp picture pinned to his corkboard is a touch sentimental, but not worth being ashamed about—not like Mr. Honeynuts is. “You can toss your shit into the closet, if you want.”

Nikki and Neil both drop their overnight bags into the closet. Nikki scrambles onto his bed, testing it out with a few bounces. It must be a brand-new mattress, Max realizes, because the springs don’t squeal at all. Neil sets his hands on his hips, giving the room a critical once-over. 

“Not bad,” he decides, finally. “Kind of impersonal.”

Max sits backwards in his desk chair, resting his chin on the headrest. “I  _ did  _ just get here. Besides, it doesn’t need to be personal. It’s just a place to sleep.”

“It’s your bedroom!” Nikki argues, rolling off of his bed and rummaging through his closet, next. “It’s gotta reflect your personality.”

“What, apathetic and mean?”

“Aw, c’mon, that’s not your whole personality. Just most of it!”

Max snorts, watching as Neil peeks out of his windows and studies the camp picture on his corkboard. He has to admit, the idea of decorating his room really isn’t that appealing. It’s too much work for something that’s completely unnecessary—and besides, it’s not like he’ll be here for more than a few years. Any effort he puts into it will be a complete waste, and he hates putting effort into things as a general rule of thumb anyway.

“You know Space Kid goes to my school?” Neil asks, glancing away from the camp picture.

“Shit, really?” Max asks.

“Yeah. I mean, he’s a couple of grades below me, but I’ve seen him in the hallways.”

Nikki sprawls out on Max’s bed, propping her chin in his hands and kicking her feet over her back. “Aww, that’s cool! I’m so jealous. I wish people from camp went to my school. Did you say hi? Did he talk to you?” 

“We talked some,” Neil says. “He’s doing okay. Man, I never thought I’d say this, but—I miss him. I guess I miss everybody from camp.”

“...I know what you mean,” Max admits. “It’s weird, not having them around after being stuck with them for so damn long.”

“Max, did you just admit to  _ missing  _ someone?” Nikki asks, gasping.

_ “Yes,  _ alright? Just a little.” Eager to dissuade them from that line of conversation, Max gets up and says, “Hey, you guys wanna see something cool?”

“Heck yeah!” Nikki springs up. “Lead the way, Maxy-man.”

“Please don’t ever call me that again.” Max leads the way back downstairs and into the living room. He grabs an unsuspecting David’s sleeve, hauling him along with them.

“Max? What are you three up to?” David asks, stumbling after him.

“We’re going into the garage,” Max says, which is as close as he can get to following the rules and asking without looking like David’s bitch. 

“Oh. Alright!”

Max leads the way down the garage steps once David has unlocked the door, pushing his guardian into a corner so he can make sure they don’t somehow manage to decapitate themselves with the variety of unplugged, snugly-covered saws in the room. He, Nikki, and Neil stop in front of the motorcycle along the wall, and Max whips the cover off to reveal it in all of it’s gleaming glory. Nikki squeals, and Neil’s eyes go round.

“This,” Max says, with an absolute air of offense, “belongs to  _ that man.” _

“To  _ David?  _ No way,” Neil says, looking disbelievingly at David. David waves sheepishly at him. “You’re not serious.”

“Serious as shit,” Max says, patting Neil’s shoulder. “I know. It’s hard to believe.”

“I wanna  _ ride it!”  _ Nikki says, bouncing up and down.

Max nods approvingly. “As you should. Unfortunately, David over here is a man of the law.”

“That’s never stopped us before!” Nikki declares.

“Ahaha, kids, let’s maybe not do anything dangerous or illegal this weekend,” David says, edging nervously in their direction.

“Yeah.” Max sighs heavily. “We really can’t, or I’ll get tossed into another home. But I’m sure if you guys asked  _ really  _ nicely, David would agree to take you for a ride as soon as we get a helmet or something.”

Nikki turns on David with a predatory gleam in her eyes. 

“Oh god,” David says, and then he’s shrieking as Nikki springs at him. As she  _ asks him really nicely to ride his bike _ , Max leads Neil back into the living room. David follows them out several minutes later, Nikki tucked wild-eyed under one arm and his hair clawed into a frazzled fluff of red atop his head. “I will take you each on  _ one  _ ride when we all of the proper gear.”

Nikki bites him, and he yelps and drops her. She bounds back over to Max and Neil, high-fiving them hard enough to leave Max’s palm stinging. “Yes! That’s what we call  _ victory!” _

They leave David to recover, tramping back up the stairs to set up Max’s room for the night. Nikki rolls out her sleeping bag on the floor, and Neil makes himself a nest of fleece blankets and pillows beside her. Max abandons his bed, dragging his blanket and sheets off of the mattress and lumping them next to Neil. They stay up late that night talking in hushed whispers, so David won’t scold them for being up past Max’s bedtime, and Max falls asleep more easily than he ever has since camp. He blames it on the late hour—but a part of him dares to think that it’s also because when he hears Neil snoring next to him, he remembers sleeping on a rickety cot in a thin canvas tent where no one had ever, ever hurt him.

Early the next morning, David raps his knuckles merrily against the bedroom door. “Good  _ morning,  _ kiddos! Up and at ‘em—we’ve got a big day ahead of us, and breakfast’s ready when you are.”

“Motherfucker,” Neil whispers into his pillow. “I’m back at camp.”

Max pats his bedraggled curls sympathetically.

By the time the three of them have staggered through their morning routine and eaten breakfast, it’s almost nine. They all load into the truck and bicker about the radio station while David keeps his eyes on the road and keeps a determined smile on his face, even when Max cranks up the death metal. As soon as they reach the amusement park, David pulls to a stop in one of the massive parking lots. Nikki, Neil, and Max tumble out of the truck as quickly as they can—mainly because if Neil and Max don’t hurry out, they’re liable to be trampled in Nikki’s enthusiasm to escape confinement. 

“Alright, alright!” David claps his hands together as he rounds the truck, shrugging off his backpack and setting it on the ground. “Sunscreen time, everybody.”

Nikki hisses at him.

“I’m brown,” Max says. 

David points at him, then tosses him the bottle. “Brown people need sunscreen too. Gwen told me. You’re not pulling the wool over my eyes this time, mister!”

Max sighs heavily, but he sprays sunscreen liberally along his exposed arm and his legs. He rubs it in, then sprays more onto his palm to smear across his face and neck the way he watched David do all the time at camp. At David’s chirped warning of “Don’t forget your ears!” Max rubs even more across his ears, and dabs some over his nose until all he smells is fucking coconut. Then he tosses the bottle to Neil, who repeats the same ritual before handing the bottle back to David.

“Okay, Nikki.” David takes a deep breath, bolstering himself. “It’s time.”

While David wrestles Nikki to get her sunscreen on, Max rummages through David’s backpack. It’s stuffed with granola bars and goldfish crackers, aloe vera, hand wipes, band-aids, and four water bottles. He tugs out all four—two of them are disposable plastic bottles, but two of them aren’t. One he recognizes as David’s, sturdy and pink with a carabiner clip and a Camp Campbell pine tree sticker on the front to match his phone case. The other bottle is new to him; it’s black with a swirling galaxy pattern across it and a bright red M sticker on the front.

It’s...his. It has to be his, right? He tugs it out of the bag, looking suspiciously at it. Nobody else has an M in their name around here, do they? When the hell did David buy him a water bottle?  _ Why  _ the hell did David buy him a water bottle? He shakes it. It seems to be full already, and when he sips at it, the water’s fresh and cold. 

“Hey, good idea, Max,” David says, releasing Nikki once they’ve both been smeared with sunscreen. “Everybody drink some water while we head for the gates. Hydration is important!”

Max rolls the water bottles out to everyone. David sips at his, then zips up his backpack and hauls it back over his shoulders. They stroll towards the amusement park gates, which are a million goddamn miles away. The sun beats down on them, mercilessly bright and hot even this early in the day, and Max is sweating by the time they make it to the ticket line. 

“Where’s Gwen?” Nikki asks, tugging on David’s sleeve. “Max said she was gonna be here, and I haven’t seen her in foreeever.” 

“She’s meeting us at the entrance. She’s already got her ticket and made it in,” David explains. He purchases their tickets, then shepherds them all to the entrance, where there’s yet  _ another  _ line to stand in. He gets his backpack checked by security, and then they’re finally allowed to enter the park. Max spots Gwen first—she leans against the far wall, playing aimlessly on her phone while she waits.

“Gwen!” Nikki shrieks when Max points her out, tearing away from their group and bolting towards her. David hurries after her, and Gwen’s eyes snap up. She catches Nikki in her arms, a rare smile flickering across her face. “Hi hi hi!”

“Hey, Nikki.” Gwen ruffles her hair. “How’ve you been, kid?”

“I’m good! What about you? You smell weird—like coconuts!”

Gwen snorts, gently pushing her back. “New soap. Hey, David, Max, Neil. It’s about time. I thought I was going to have to go at this adventure solo.”

“Well, you know how it is, getting kids up and ready,” David says cheerfully. “It’s a process.”

“You can say that again. Neil, you doing alright?” Gwen asks, returning Neil’s perfunctory nod. 

“Better than ever,” Neil says. “I’m in a science club with actual science equipment.”

“Everything you ever dreamed?” Gwen asks, wry.

Neil glances over at Nikki and Max. “Well, it’s missing a few lab assistants, but I make do. It’s not like my  _ old  _ lab assistants actually did anything useful.”

“Aww, Neil!” Nikki hugs him.

“Gross, Nikki, ugh. It’s too hot for touching.” Neil pushes her off, making a face. “You’re all sweaty.”

“So are  _ you.” _

“So are all of us,” Max says, flinging his hands into the air. “It’s hotter than Satan’s ballsack out here. Let’s go find some shade before we boil alive.”

Gwen leads the way to a small pavilion with a map board. Max stands on his tip-toes so he can see the map, squinting up at the rides. 

“Want some help up?” David offers.

“Pick me up and I’ll punch your throat so hard your trachea collapses.”

David quickly steps back.

“What do you guys wanna go on first?” Max asks Nikki and Neil, glancing over at them. He can only see the rides closest to the bottom of the map—fortunately, those are the rides closet to them right now. “They have a couple of rollercoasters to the right. The teacups and swings and stuff are over to the left.”

“Let’s start with the little stuff,” Neil says, “that way we can work up to the rollercoasters.”

“Sounds good to me. Let’s go wreck this place!” Nikki leads the charge to the left. Max and Neil plunge into the crowd after her, and David and Gwen bring up the rear. He can hear them whispering together. 

“...should have brought a leash,” Gwen hisses. “We’re going to lose them all if Nikki’s headrunner.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Don’t worry—she’s got bright blue hair, see? Easy to spot. We won’t lose anybody,” David says. About two seconds later, there’s a tap on Max’s shoulder. He turns to see David offering him the phone. “Just in case. Gwen’s number is in the contacts list if you get lost.”

Max nods, tucking the phone into his hoodie pocket before hurrying to catch up with Nikki and Neil. They spend the morning and the better part of the afternoon riding smaller rides. Max spins them quickly enough to make Gwen nauseous on the teacups, and then they all stagger off to the swings. Nikki shrieks with delight as they soar above the amusement park, and even Max has to admit it’s a cool view—his shoes above the treetops, swarms of giddy people milling below him, shrieks of fear and delight echoing in the distance as the warm breeze tugs at his hair.

Bumper cars come next, and Max spends most of his time on that ride trying to obliterate David. Nikki spends it slamming her car as hard as she can into the nearest possible person, stranger or not. Neil spends it screaming. The tilt-a-whirl is next, and that one makes even Max dizzy. He stumbles around for a couple of minutes afterwards, trying to uncross his eyes while Nikki and Gwen make fun of him. To recuperate, they take a ride on the Ferris wheel. David ushers them all in for a group selfie while they’re at the very top—he has the nerve to make dumb faces at the camera until Max cracks a grin, the bastard.

Around noon, they settle in for lunch. Max orders chicken strips and—at David’s wheedling—apple slices. Nikki chows down on a pair of corndogs while Neil picks at his grilled cheese. Gwen shares her order of churros, and David promises them sweet treats before they leave the park. They refill their water bottles and reapply their sunscreen, then take off again.

During the hottest part of the afternoon, they stick to the water rides. Max wraps his cast in its waterproofing bagging, then even goes so far as to shed his hoodie, stuffing it into David’s backpack. Nikki favors the log ride, which plunges them all into a pool of water and arcs a wave high above their heads before absolutely soaking them. Neil likes the river ride more—they float calmly in a raft along a manmade river for several minutes. Neil, Gwen, and Max relax, tipping their faces back into the sunshine. David tries desperately to keep Nikki from splashing them. Max himself prefers the water gun ride. They load up into a much larger raft bristling with water guns, and as they float down the river they get to shoot passersby with dousing streams of cold water. Of course, the passerbys get to shoot them, too, so Max ends up drenched but ultimately satisfied. 

As promised, David buys them all sweets late in the afternoon while they dry off in the baking sunshine. They sit on a bench near the water rides, so the breeze blows cool over the water and stirs their damp hair. Max eats his chocolate ice cream cone rather hastily, trying to keep it from dripping all over his fingers. Even so, by the time he’s finished, both his hand and face are unpleasantly sticky with chocolate smears.

“Here.” David offers him a hand wipe, an amused smile on his face. “You got some on your nose.”

Max wrinkles his nose, quickly wiping his face and hand off and tossing the wipe into a nearby trashcan. Nikki downs her cone in a few impressive bites, and Gwen sighs and wipes drips of ice cream out of her frizzy hair. Neil is the last to finish his ice cream, but Max is in no rush. They still have all night, after all. Besides, sitting here and watching the crowds swarm by in the late golden sun feels strangely peaceful. The smells of popcorn, hamburgers, and warm taffy flood the air, and he can hear the cheerful shouts of small children and the laughter of friends everywhere around him. 

“What do you think?” Gwen asks, elbowing him gently. “Pretty cool?”

“It’s alright.”

“Is this your first time here?”

“Yeah. First time at any amusement park, actually—my parents weren’t big on family outings, as you can imagine.” Max’s lip curls into a sneer, but it’s out of habit more than actual scorn. To be honest, he’s feeling too tired and content to really bitch about anything. “What about you? I bet you’ve been here dozens of times.”

“Well, I do live here.” Gwen stretches her legs out in front of her, hooking her arms behind her head. “I usually go at least once a year. It’s really cool at Christmas—they have all these lights and decorations and a big parade. If you ride the rollercoasters at night then, it’s absolutely beautiful.”

“That sounds pretty cool,” Max allows.

“You think so?” David asks, peeking around Neil to look at him. “Would you want to go?”

Max averts his eyes, toying nonchalantly with the edge of his cast. “I mean, only if you wanna waste the money.”  _ And only,  _ he refrains from adding,  _ if I’m actually still here. _

“It’s not a waste if we enjoy it,” David says, grinning and leaning back against the bench. The tips of his ears are already bright red—clearly, he forgot to reapply sunscreen there after lunch. With the sun creeping towards the western horizon and the damage already done, Max doesn’t point it out to him. He’ll figure it out soon enough, if he hasn’t already. 

Finally, as evening creeps towards them, they head to the rollercoasters. Nikki has taken to riding on David’s back, her head lolling against his shoulder. Max almost envies her—almost. His feet have started to ache, and he’s wearier than he’d like to admit. The excitement of getting to go on  _ rollercoasters  _ revitalizes him, however, and he leads the way as they near the rides.

“Which one first?” he asks, stopping at another map and climbing up Gwen to see the coasters properly. Gwen grumbles but loops an arm out to support him. “Black Mamba, Superman, Striker, Wildfire, Space Mountain—jeez, we’ve got a lot to get through.”

“Now, we don’t  _ have  _ to do all of them today,” David reminds them. “We can come back another time.”

“I want to do them all,” Max insists. 

“I think your friends might be getting tired.” David gently sets Nikki on the ground. “Let’s see what they want. Nikki, Neil, you guys up for all of them?”

Nikki rubs her eye with a balled-up fist. “Let’s do the most exciting ones.”

“Yeah, we can just do a couple. We can do the ones we miss some other time,” Neil says, elbowing him gently. “Gives us an excuse to come back, right?”

“I want to do them now,” Max says, his voice souring. “Guys, seriously? It won’t take that long.”

“I mean, I guess we can.” Neil rubs the back of his neck, sighing. “It’s not a big deal.”

“No.” David crouches in front of them, meeting Max’s eyes. Max scowls. “You’ve gotta listen to what other people want, too, Max. Compromise is important. You—”

“I don’t have time for your  _ life lessons  _ right now, old man. We have five rollercoasters to ride before this shitty park shuts down,” Max snaps.

“Something tells me Nikki and Neil aren’t the only ones getting tired.” David has the nerve to look  _ fondly  _ at him. “I think you need to get some rest before you get crankier. Pick two rollercoasters, okay? We’ll ride the other three later.”

“Or we could ride them  _ now,  _ since we’re literally already here and it’s  _ logical,”  _ Max says, waving a hand towards the cluster of coasters. “We can grab some coffee or something if we’re all that tired, fucking hell.”

Gwen folds her arms across her chest, frowning down at him. “Listen, brat. You pick two coasters the way David told you or we’re not riding any of them.”

“What?” Max demands. “You can’t do that. I’m not your camper anymore, and I’m certainly not your goddamn  _ kid.” _

When Max looks to David for some sort of defense, David glances away and rubs the back of his neck. “Gwen’s right,” David says, the fucking  _ traitor.  _ “Two or nothing, bud.”

“Thirty seconds. Make your choice,” Gwen says, tapping her foot impatiently against the asphalt. 

“I can’t believe this,” Max says, fuming. This is  _ ridiculous.  _ This is—since when did David take  _ her  _ side over  _ Max’s?  _ He’s supposed to care about Max more! God, it’s always the same, isn’t it? Nobody chooses him first. Nobody ever jumps to his defense. It’s always  _ Max’s  _ fault, always  _ Max  _ being punished, and even Mama never tried to stop Papa from—from—

“Max?” David prompts gently. “What’s it gonna be?”

Neil sets a hand on Max’s shoulder and says, “Let’s just pick two. Maybe we can come back at Christmas for the other three, see the lights.”

“You know what? No.” Max whirls back around, pointing at Gwen. “You’re a bitch.”

Nikki winces, and Neil drags his hands down his face.

“Max,” David says, his voice suddenly sharpening. Max  _ hates  _ that tone of voice. It doesn’t sound right, coming from David. It sounds alien and horrible and entirely wrong. 

“And  _ you,”  _ Max snarls, glowering at him because it’s the only thing that makes sense to do, because anger is a familiar raft in a sudden sea of fucking nonsense, “are an  _ asshole.” _

Max whirls around and storms back the way they’d come before David or Gwen can respond, but he hears their voices raise as he shoves his way through the crowd. It sounds like condemnation, and shame curls bleak and cold behind his ribs. He refuses to turn back and face them, keeping his eyes locked ahead of him. 

“Max!” Gwen shouts. “Max, stay with us, you little—”

David’s voice cuts her off, quieter but no happier. “Let him go. As long as he doesn’t leave our sight, he’s fine. Just let him cool off.”

Nikki materializes at his left elbow, her eyes wide. “I think David’s actually  _ mad  _ at you.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound like that before,” Neil says, catching up to them easily with his gangly legs. “What the fuck, Max?”

“Listen, if all you’re going to do is bitch at me, go join their club,” Max says, hooking his thumb back at David and Gwen. 

“I’m not bitching, I’m just  _ saying,”  _ Neil complains, crossing his arms over his chest. “Two rollercoasters is better than none.”

Max turns on him, teeth bared, but Nikki interrupts before he can speak.

“Wait, so what happens now? Are you in trouble?” she asks. “Is David gonna send us home early?”

“David’s a pushover,” Max says scathingly. “He won’t do anything like that. He’ll probably just tell me how  _ disappointed  _ he is, like that’s anything new. When is he not, am I right?”

Nikki and Neil trade a glance, then look sadly at him. He bristles under their pity.

“What?” he demands. “It’s not a surprise. He’s David and I’m  _ me.  _ I’m never gonna be the kid he wants. The sooner he accepts that, the easier this is for all of us.”

The sooner he accepts that, the sooner he gets rid of Max. The thought makes a wad of panic lodge in his throat, and his eyes prickle dangerously. He tears his gaze away from Nikki and Neil and takes a deep breath, balling his good hand into a fist. The evening air cools as they make their way towards the park exit, sweeping over Max’s sweat-sticky skin and leeching warmth away from him. He wants his hoodie back almost desperately, but he’s not willing to ask David for it. 

Once they’re out of the park, Max falls back and lets David and Gwen pass him. Gwen shoots him an irritated look, but she doesn’t speak—David just looks sad.  _ Disappointed.  _ The word stings behind Max’s eyes. The adults lead the way back to the parking lot, and Max scrambles into the truck with Nikki and Neil. He leans his head against the window, pulling his knees to his chest as he watches David and Gwen talk quietly a few cars away. 

“Sorry we got you in trouble,” Nikki whispers. “But David, he’s—not like your dad, right?”

Neil’s eyes linger on his cast. “He’s  _ never _ been like your dad, right?”

“No.” Max shakes his head. “He’s David, come on. The bastard couldn’t hurt something to save his own life.”

Nikki and Neil both breathe a sigh of relief, and Max has to admit that he’s touched by their concern. He knocks Neil’s knee with his.

“Seriously, guys, it’s not a big deal,” he insists. “Don’t worry about it. David’s pissed, but he’ll get over it. Besides, it wasn’t your fault. It was Gwen’s.”

“Gwen’s, huh?” Nikki asks.

“I mean, yeah. If she hadn’t butted in where she didn’t belong, we wouldn’t be in this mess. She’s too fucking bossy,” Max grumbles, setting his chin on his knees. “She isn’t in charge of me anymore. I don’t even know why she cares.”

“She is pretty bossy,” Nikki agrees.

“But David was the one who agreed with her, so isn’t it  _ his  _ fault?” Neil points out.

“I’m telling you guys, David is a  _ pushover.  _ He’ll go along with anyone if they sound like they know what they’re doing,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “That’s why he had Cameron goddamn Campbell on a pedestal for so long. Well, that and his staggeringly obvious daddy issues.”

Just as Neil opens his mouth to respond, David calls for him. “Max? Come here, please.”

Max leans his head back against the seat, groaning. Nikki pats his shoulder consolingly. “Good luck,” she says. “Remember he’s a pushover, and if he tries to hurt you I’ll bite his face off!”

“Thanks, Nik.” Max takes a deep breath, then shoves the truck door back open and stalks across the parking lot to David and Gwen. He glares at their shoes when he reaches them, hunching his shoulders and biting out a single bitter word: “What?”

David crouches in front of him. Max’s eyes skitter away when David tries to meet his gaze, focusing stubbornly on the dusty tires of the car next to them. “You know what you said to Gwen and I—and more importantly,  _ why  _ you said it—was inappropriate.”

Max shrugs.

“That’s not an answer. I need to know whether or not you knew what you were doing was wrong.”

“Yes,” Max spits, “I  _ knew.” _

“Good. We need to be clear on these things. Why was it wrong?”

“Seriously?” Max’s eyes whip up to glare at David. “You’re going to this here? In front of  _ her?” _

“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t like to—but it wasn’t only me you hurt today, was it?” David meets his glare, stubbornly calm. It’s insulting. Why doesn’t he get mad? Why doesn’t he yell? Why doesn’t he even  _ look  _ angry? It pisses Max off, how absolutely impossible it is to get under David’s skin. It makes him feel powerless. “Now, remind me, why was what you said to us wrong?”

“Because it pissed Gwen off,” Max mutters, “and now you have to deal with her bitching at you to punish me because she knows you’re too spineless to do it yourself.”

“Damn it, Max!” Gwen hisses. “Why do you have to be so  _ difficult?  _ You—”

David reaches over, patting Gwen’s leg, and she cuts herself off. “No,” David says. “It was wrong because you said it in order to make both of us feel bad. Saying things like that as a joke is one thing, but when you say it just to hurt us, it—well, it works. It hurts us.”

Guilt begins to rear its ugly head in Max’s chest, but he shoves it ruthlessly away with a flash of indignant anger—he may have hurt them, but they hurt him, too! Treating him like a fucking  _ baby,  _ ordering him around like he doesn’t get to make his own fucking choices! And then—and then  _ David  _ siding with  _ Gwen!  _ Max doesn’t like to fool himself. He knows David doesn’t love him like an actual son, but he’d like to think David is at least a little fond of him. He has to be, to foster Max’s sorry ass, doesn’t he? So why—

Why had he chosen Gwen over Max?

“So what?” Max snaps. “It’s true. She’s a bitch and you’re an asshole.”

He can practically feel Gwen glaring daggers into the top of his head, but David doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t  _ fucking  _ get angry, and Max trembles with rage at the indignity of it. “..do you mean that?” David asks quietly, and Max’s guilt surges forward with cold determination.

“Well, you’re both  _ acting  _ like it,” Max mutters. God, this fucking sucks. He wants to crawl back into the truck and never think about this again, but he really doubts David is going to allow that. Hell, this goddamn  _ talk  _ is worse than any punishment David had outlined for him. It’s humiliating—especially with Gwen here.

“I’m sorry you feel that way. We were trying to look out for you,” David says softly. “You’re tired. So are Nikki and Neil. You guys need to get home, get some dinner, and sleep. Riding all five rollercoasters would have taken us at least two more hours, and that’s if the lines were short. We just didn’t have time, and I wasn’t about to keep you kids out so late when you’ve had such a long day already. I know that’s disappointing, but you can’t lash out when you don’t get exactly what you want.”

Max grits his teeth. “So, what? You gonna take away my phone? The TV? My book? You gonna send Nikki and Neil home ‘cause I disappointed you?”

“I will never use your friends as a punishment,” David says. “I think leaving the amusement park early was enough punishment on its own, provided you give Gwen and I an apology for what you said.”

“What?” Max bristles. “No way.”

“Max…”

“Suck a dick, David.”

David sighs, lifting a hand and rubbing his forehead. “Right. Okay. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow, when you’re not in such a foul mood. Go back to the truck.”

Max flips him off, and he goes back to the damn truck. As he climbs into his seat, he can hear David and Gwen murmuring between each other.

“I’m sorry, Gwen,” David says. “You’re not a—a bitch.”

Gwen snorts. “Well, not always—but really, it’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

“I know, I just—” David sighs. “We’re working on it.”

“I know. You’re doing great.”

“...it doesn’t feel like it.”

Max swallows hard. Nikki reaches out, ruffling his hair vigorously. “So?” she demands. “How’d it go?”

“He’s a pushover,” Max says. “Like I said.”

He’s a pushover, and Max is the one who always fucking  _ pushes.  _

“Do we have to go home?” Neil asks.

“No.” Max slouches down in his seat—whatever lightness they’d managed to put into his mood earlier has completely vanished now, and they seem to realize it. They fall quiet, and the ride home is a painfully long one. Even David keeps his silence, his fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel as they glide along the hallway.

Eventually, the gentle rumbling of the truck has Nikki and Neil lilting into sleep. Nikki’s head bows forward, her chin bumping her chest—her seatbelt is the only thing keeping her upright. Neil tips to the side, slumping against Max. His head comes to rest against Max’s shoulder, and Max sighs but doesn’t push him off. He leans his own head against the window, watching his breath fog the glass and avoiding David’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He’s far too tense to sleep—at least, that’s what he thinks for the first half-hour of the drive. Then his eyelids begin to feel impossibly heavy, and he lets them slides shut for just a...just a minute…

When he wakes, it’s to the sound of David gently jostling Nikki awake. Max jerks his head up, startling Neil awake in the process, and rubs his eyes. When he glances out the window, he sees their house. Shit. How’d they get home so damn fast? Neil groans, hiding his face in Max’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to squint up at the truck’s cab light.

“Hey there, sleepyheads,” David says, smiling at them. “Dinner and showers, and then you can all go back to sleep, okay?”

Nikki mumbles something incoherent, reaching up for him. David unbuckles her, then scoops her up. Her thin arms snake around his neck, her tiny body slumping against him because she trusts him not to let her fall, not ever. The smile that graces David’s face as she snuggles into him is impossibly fond, and he rubs her back gently as he ducks back out of the truck. The wave of jealousy that slams into Max then takes his breath away, and he fucking hates it.

“Wake up and get off of me, asshole,” he mutters to Neil, shoving his weary companion towards the open door. “Let’s go.”

Neil stumbles out of the truck, and Max follows close on his heels. They eat a quick dinner of whatever the fuck David had tossed into the slow cooker that morning—Max  _ thinks  _ it’s lasagna, but there’s an odd flavor to it he can’t quite place. 

“It’s eggplant,” David explains, his eyes brightening when Neil asks. “Pretty good, right? And healthy, too!”

“It’s  _ what?”  _ Nikki screeches. “I don’t eat vegetables! This is trickery of the highest order, this is—this is betrayal, this—”

“You liked it until you knew what was in it,” David says, pointing his fork at her.

“And now that I know, I dislike it on principle. Hmph.” She sticks her nose into the air, shoving her plate away from her. Unfortunately, it lacks very much power, considering there’s only half a bite left. 

David chuckles. “Okay, Nikki. But you know vegetables are good for you, right?”

“Grown-ups keep saying that like it’s going to make me believe them.”

“You know, eggplant is technically a fruit,” Neil points out. 

“Oh, I like fruit.” Nikki’s eyes widen, and she crams the last bite of lasagna into her mouth. “Mmm. Fruity.”

David tosses Neil a grateful look, in response to which Neil nods professionally.

Max rolls his eyes and pushes his own lasagna around on his plate. He’s not hungry, but he knows David will fuss if he doesn’t at least eat some of it, and the last thing he wants is another _talk_ while his friends watch. So he forces half of the lasagna down his throat, then pushes his plate away. David gently sets a glass of chocolate Pediasure down in front of him. Nikki and Neil get _actual_ chocolate milk, the lucky fucks. 

Once they’ve finished dinner, they each shower and brush their teeth, then settle into Max’s bedroom again. Neil rants about his science teacher, and Nikki stands on her knees and folds her arms across Max’s windowsill to look outside. Max lays back in his mound of blankets, staring at the ceiling and breathing through the waves of guilt and confusion and bitter anger that sit crash against him. God, why can’t he just be  _ happy?  _ Today was a good day. Today was a fucking phenomenal day. If he could just feel like he felt in that moment only hours before, sitting in the golden sunlight with his friends at his side and the cheerful chatter of people all around him, a half-melted ice cream cone in hand, with the smell of sticky taffy in his nose and the promise of better things to come—

God, if he could only live in that moment.

“Guys, look!” Nikki says, suddenly urgent. 

Max joins her at the window, bracing his arms against the sill and pressing his forehead to the glass. It’s impossibly black outside—this far away from the city, the night sits like a velvet blanket overhead, smeared with impossible swathes of silver stars. “What?”

Neil takes up a spot on Nikki’s other side. “Yeah, what? It’s dark.”

“Look.” Nikki taps her finger against the glass, and Max follows her gaze down to the yard. “Fireflies!”

Soft, small dots of yellow flicker in the shadows that sit heavily in the yard. The longer Max watches, the more he sees. Five, ten, twenty, fifty—he loses count of them. He presses his the pads of his fingers to the glass, and for the briefest of moments, he feels like things are going to be okay, because there are stars above him and fireflies below him and two of the world’s best friends beside him. 

Then he thinks of David—thinks of the parents he disappoints over and over and  _ over  _ again—and not even the fireflies can ease his guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay you guys so i have !! a quick update on the posting schedule, for those of you interested in that sort of thing: i'm moving back to my school campus this saturday because my classes and my job are gonna be starting back up soon! this is!! super terrifying and super exciting at the same time!!! however, i am Definitely not going to have as much free time to write as i've had this summer. i don't want to abandon this fic, but i also have no idea what my personal schedule is going to look like after next week, and this semester is already shaping up to be an unpredictable one. until further notice, _find your better_ is gonna be on hiatus. i know that's disappointing (for you guys and for me!) but i do have to prioritize my classes and my personal life for the time being. i have back-up chapters for all of my fics, so this certainly isn't the last time i'll post! it just might be a few weeks until the next update. if i do decide to abandon this story (which i don't expect to), i'll be certain to let you all know. for now, thank you all so so much for your constant encouragement and your patience!! i really appreciate it, and im thrilled you've all been enjoying this fic!!
> 
> until next time, stay safe, stay healthy, and do good things!! :D


	12. he should want to drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warnings: nightmares, drowning, child abuse + neglect, brief passive suicidal ideation**

On Sunday, Nikki bullies Neil and Max into a kickball tournament in the backyard. By the time she finally calls it quits, Max has two scraped knees and a smattering of brand-new bruises on his shins and elbow. Playing football with Nikki, he thinks wryly, feels a lot like being run over by a car. Neil must be of the same mind, because as soon as they’re done he lays down in the grass and groans like he’s been shot. Max lets him wallow for a while, then gently kicks him in the ribs. 

“Hey,” he says. “You guys wanna watch some frogs eat each other?”

Obviously, they do. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the woods, although—to their great disappointment—they don’t see witness any frog cannibalism on their excursion. Shortly before lunchtime, Max longues in the shade of an enormous pine next to the creek and sips water from his new bottle. The M sticker glitters accusingly at him.

“I wish I had a microscope,” Neil mutters, cupping creek water in his hands. “I bet this stuff has all kinds of microorganisms in it.”

Max pours some of his own water into his palm, slicking it through his curls and across his forehead to stave off the summer heat. “Take some home.”

Neil dumps out the rest of the water from his plastic bottle, then refills it with creek water and screws the cap back on. 

“Now you just have to remember not to drink it, or those microorganisms’ll have a fucking shitfest in your intestines,” Max says, snorting. “Hell of an experiment.”

“Guys, check it out.” Nikki sidesteps, sweeping an arm towards the lopsided castle she’s made of mud. Max has to admit that it’s pretty impressive for something with no structural integrity whatsoever. “Mud fort!”

Neil crouches next to her, peering critically at it. “Add sticks.”

“What? Why?”

“Support. We can make it even taller.”

Max watches as his friends build a damn good mud castle next to the creek. He gets up to join them, eventually, although he complains about the mud on his hands. Nikki makes little soldiers out of rocks and leaves and pretends to storm the castle, and Max builds a tiny catapult out of sticks and vines to defend their territory. Their muddy medieval story lasts until lunchtime, when David calls for them. They wash their hands off in the creek, then make their way back to the house and slide into their seats at the table.

David is...quieter than usual that afternoon, but not alarmingly so. He still grins as Nikki tells him all about their adventuring in the forest, and he listens intently as Neil explains his idea for research on creek-dwelling microorganisms. Max chases a spaghetti noodle aimlessly around his bowl as they talk, painfully aware that his time with his friends grows shorter by the minute. 

At two (and after another perilous round of kickball), David shepherds them all back into the truck. They make the drive back to Nikki’s house, and Max spends most of his time listening to Nikki and Neil chatter with David. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend they’re back at camp and the whole endless summer stretches out in front of them, golden and eternal.

Fuck. He misses them so much it  _ hurts _ and they’re not even gone.

When it finally comes time to leave them at Nikki’s house, Max doesn’t even bother trying to act like he doesn’t want a hug. He squeezes them both tightly, and they hug him back just as hard. If he holds on just a little longer than he should, they don’t mention it.

“Thursdays at 5:00,” Neil reminds them both sternly. “Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Max says.

Nikki presses her face to Neil’s chest and sniffles. “Yeah, dummy. We wouldn’t miss it for the whole entire world.”

Max takes a deep breath, ruffling Nikki’s hair before stepping away. He tucks his hand into his hoodie pocket. “I’ll, uh—I’ll see you guys soon, okay?”

...even as he says it, he gets the feeling that he’s lying. If— _ when— _ David sends him away, he doubts he’ll ever seen them again. Damn if that little scrap of paper with numbers scrawled on it isn’t suddenly the most important thing in his life. Nikki and Neil wave from the porch as David pulls the truck back out onto the street, and Max presses his fingertips to the glass and watches as they fade into the distance. His throat tightens painfully.

“I’m sorry you all can’t see each other as often as you’d like to,” David says. “I know it must be hard.”

Max slumps back into his seat, pulling his knees to his chest and hugging them. “Yeah.”

“You wanna pick the radio station?”

“This is fine,” Max says. Nikki had switched the channel to country music at some point during the drive, and Max doesn’t feel like changing it. 

David opens his mouth to speak again, then hesitates and closes it. They make the rest of the drive home in relative silence. As soon as they get home, Max makes a beeline for his room—but David stops him before he makes it to the stairs.

“Max, we need to talk.”

Fuck. Max stops with his foot on the first step, frowning back at David. “What? Getting onto me last night wasn’t enough for you?”

“I’m sorry.”

Max falters, turning to face David entirely. “...what?”

“I’m sorry.” David spreads his hands apologetically in front of him, then takes a seat on the couch. “About last night. I don’t think I handled it the right way. Can we sit down and talk, please?”

Max warily takes a seat on the edge of the couch cushion. This is weird—but then, most of what David does is weird, so he supposes he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is to hear an adult apologize. “So?” he says, when David doesn’t immediately continue. “Talk already.”

“I still stand by what I said,” David says, and Max’s mouth twists unhappily. “Your behavior was inappropriate, and you knew it. I don’t like it when you say things just to hurt people, Max. I know you can do better. You’re a good kid.”

Max scoffs, slouching back into the couch and folding his arms across his chest. 

“It’s true,” David insists. “You’re good. That’s why it upset me to see you being so cruel towards other people. You earned your punishment, and I don’t regret giving it to you.”

“Uh, yeah, I thought this was supposed to be an apology, not just a—”

“I shouldn’t have scolded you in front of Gwen,” David blurts. 

Max glances up at him, his brow furrowing. 

“That wasn’t nice of me,” David continues, wringing his hands. “It was a bad judgement call and I’m sorry. I know you have a lot of pride, and looking back on it, having a conversation like that in front of Gwen was—it was probably humiliating for you. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“...why the fuck not?”

David looks at him, baffled.

“No, seriously,” Max says. “Why are you apologizing for that? Wasn’t that the whole point? If you’re getting onto me, I’m  _ supposed  _ to feel bad. That’s the idea.”

David shakes his head stubbornly. “No. I’m your—I’m in charge of teaching you right from wrong, yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to shame you for doing things wrong. Everyone makes mistakes, and you’re still learning. There will be consequences for your actions, but those consequences certainly don’t include humiliating you in front of other people. It wasn’t my intention to do that, but—that was what I did, wasn’t it?”

Max shrugs. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s not like I give a shit what Gwen thinks.”

“We both know you do.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. Anyway, the whole thing was her fault in the first place.” Max looks sulkily at the floor, scuffing his sneaker across it.

“Her fault, huh?”

“She just—she—” A muscle jumps in Max’s jaw as he clenches his teeth. “She can’t tell me what to do. You’re the only person who gets to do that— _ sometimes— _ and that’s just because we talked about it first. And then you just—you—ugh.”

“And then I what?” David coaxes. “Max?”

Max clenches his fist, then uncurls it with a bitter sigh. “You didn’t even try to stop her, like you didn’t even care that she was being a bitch to me. Seriously, dick move. I thought you gave a shit or something.”

“Ah.” David leans back against the couch, exhaling softly and resting his hands on his knees. “So you were upset because I sided with Gwen and not you?”

Max glares at the ground, rubbing a thumb irritably across his hoodie sleeve.

For a moment, David stays quiet, looking across at the empty fireplace and drumming his fingers on his knee. Then he says, “You know there are no sides here. Gwen wants the best for you, just like I do. I talked to her while you were in the truck—she wants you to make good decisions, and it frustrates her when you don’t. You know she’s not the most patient person.”

“You can say that again,” Max says scathingly. “Bitch.”

“Max,” David warns. Max huffs. “She doesn’t tolerate things like I do and we both know it. She thinks I’m not strict enough with you, and I guess that’s fair—I mean, I don’t exactly have a great track record when it comes to keeping you out of trouble, do I? So she stepped in. She was trying to help me help you.”

“You’re  _ defending  _ her? Again? Man, fuck you.”

“Yes, I’m defending her, because I agree with her,” David says, frowning at him. “She was right. You were out of line, and the punishment she came up with was fair. I agreed with her because of that, not because I like her more or because I’m on _her side._ We’re all on the same side, the same team. We all want you to grow up happy and healthy and—and well-adjusted.”

“You would be on the same team as a fucking squirrel if it sounded competent enough,” Max spits. “You’ll let everybody walk all over you—and all over  _ me— _ because you don’t think you’re good enough to make your own decisions. Gwen doesn’t trust you to take care of me, and neither do  _ you— _ so what the hell am  _ I  _ supposed to believe?”

David falls silent, his hands tightening on his knees. 

“Struck a nerve there, huh?” Max asks sourly. “I didn’t agree to let Gwen dictate my life. That’s your job now, like it or not. You’re the only person I’m gonna listen to, because I—fuck, because I think you’re pretty good at this foster parent shit, even if nobody else does.”

David’s eyes snap up, wide and stunned.

“Oh, shut up,” Max says, scowling. His face feels hot. “Anyway, if you really agree with Gwen and you’re not just saying you do because you’re a giant pushover who doesn’t know how to think for himself, then fine. She was right. But I still don’t like her bossing me around, and she didn’t have to act so bitchy about it.”

A wobbly smile crosses David’s face. Oh, Jesus, he looks like he’s about to cry. “Thanks, Max.”

“Yeah, whatever. And—I mean—” Max sniffs, lifting his chin and looking defiantly at the fireplace. “You’re not  _ usually  _ an asshole. So. I’m sorry I called you that, I guess.”

“Apology accepted.” David wipes hastily at his eyes. “And I appreciate it. You still need to apologize to Gwen, though.”

“What? Why? She was actually a bitch last night.”

“Max, I’d really like it if you didn’t talk about my friends that way,” David says, his voice a little firmer—the sniffles really undermine it, though. “Gwen can be a little bossy and, um, abrasive, but I don’t think she was trying to be yesterday. I think you were upset because she stepped in and told you no, not because she was cruel about it. Would that be fair to think?”

Max hesitates, chewing the inside of his cheek. He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. He  _ was  _ pissed about not being able to ride the rollercoasters, and he supposes that might be part of the reason he’s so irritated at Gwen now. Looking back, what she said really could have been a lot worse. Max knows that, because it  _ has  _ been a lot worse. She was the one who made fun of Mr. Honeynuts in front of everyone, after all— _ that  _ had been a real bitch move (and he thinks she knows it, too, because she’s never brought Mr. Honeynuts up again). 

David nudges him gently with his shoulder. “You two are both really alike, you know?”

“Take it back.”

David grins at him. “It’s true. And she really does care about you—she just has a hard time showing it.”

“Yeah?” Max asks grimly. “So did my mother.”

“Oh, ouch.” David winces. “Gwen is  _ not  _ your mother.”

“Thank god.”

“But Gwen  _ is _ my best friend and I love her, so I’d like it if you didn’t say mean things to her,” David says, rubbing a thumb across his knuckles. “And I know she can be mean, too—boy, do I know. So if she’s mean, tell me, okay? Let me deal with it, or least let me help you to deal with it.”

“Yeah, okay. I guess that’s fair.” Max inclines his head, studying his hands quietly. “...I mean, I like her too, most of the time. She’s not always terrible. Hell, even when she is terrible, I like her—as long as she’s not a terrible towards me.”

David looks hopefully at him. “Yeah? I always kinda thought you two were friends.”

“We are, I guess—or at least we were at camp.” Max pinches the bridge of his nose. “I mean, at least she has common sense, right? Plus she’s almost as sick of this shitty world as I am. She gets it.”

“I’m glad you two have so much in common,” David chirps. Max...isn’t quite sure having a general loathing for the world as a whole is a great commonality to share, but hey, he’s not gonna burst David’s bubble. He’s tired of doing that. “So, I know you said you don’t want to listen to anyone but me, but that’s not always going to work.”

Max looks suspiciously at him, eyes narrowing. 

“Like at school,” David explains. “You need to listen to your teachers. If I ever leave you alone with Gwen, you’ll need to listen to her, too. I know trusting people—trusting adults _ — _ is difficult for you, but you can trust me, right? At least a little bit?”

“Yeah,” Max says, and he’s startled to find that he means it—he does trust David. Holy fuck, when did that happen?

David beams, eyes crinkling up at the edges. “Awesome! So you can trust to me to only leave you with adults that  _ I  _ trust. I promise I’ll never leave you with anyone I don’t think can take good care of you. That means if your teachers tell you to do something, I want you to do it, because I think they have your best interests in mind. The same goes for Gwen. I trust her to know what’s good for you and what’s not. Deal?”

“Hm.” Max folds his arms skeptically across his chest. “Maybe. But if they tell me to do something stupid…”

“They won’t. I wouldn’t leave you with someone I thought would ask you to do something stupid, or dangerous, or unfair.”

Max sighs heavily. “Your overabundance of faith in people is a constant thorn in my side. I’ll give it a shot, but I’m not making any promises here.”

“That sounds like a great deal to me!” David hops off of the couch, setting his hands on his hips and puffing his chest out like a goddamn bantam rooster. “Problem solved. So, what do you say? Wanna help me make dinner? I’m thinking chicken tacos.”

Max glances up the stairs—up at the quiet safety of his room—and then looks away and says, “Sure.”

* * *

All in all, Max thought their conversation had gone far, far better he’d expected. It’s a relief to be back in David’s good graces (although he’s not quite sure anyone can ever really  _ escape  _ those) and free of a grudge. It’s certainly weird to get over a conflict that quickly. Papa usually fumed for days after Max fucked up, and Max had fumed right back at him. If he pissed Mama off, on the other hand, he could expect weeks of passive-aggressive comments before things smoothed out to make way for the next bitter argument. 

Anyway, he thinks he likes this quick-fix thing better.

Dinner had gone great, too. David had turned Max loose with avocados and a potato masher for the guacamole, which was a mess—but was also pretty fun. Gwen had called later that evening, while David was busy combing the tangles from Max’s damp hair. David spoke cheerfully with her while Max leaned lazily against his legs and watched the nature documentary on the TV. Eventually, when he’d gotten bored watching lions maul their prey, he’d said, “Put her on speaker.”

So David put her on speaker.

“I’m sorry I called you a bitch,” Max said, brief and pointed and vaguely annoyed. 

“...what,” Gwen said.

“You heard me,” Max snapped. “No way in hell am I repeating it.”

“Did you just _apologize_ of your own free will? Holy shit, what did David promise you, a fucking yacht? A summer free of Camp Campbell? A million dollar—”

“Great, great, now you’re making me regret it, you—”

“Ahaha, great talk, great job, everybody involved!” David said, ruffling Max’s hair. “I love hearing that communication! Max, buddy, thank you. Gwen…?”

Gwen cleared her throat. “Yeah. Thanks, you little jerk.”

“Whatever.” Max snagged the TV remote, swapping over to an episode of  _ Breaking Bad.  _ If he had to sit here and suffer through David and Gwen’s conversation, he was at least going to watch something he enjoyed. David winced when he saw Max’s choice—he didn’t like all the drugs, but Max had convinced him it wasn’t any worse than what he’d lived through with Mama and Papa. 

“So would you be okay with babysitting this little rascal again on Monday afternoon?” David asked. “We can do haircuuuts.”

“Oh, I suppose,” Gwen says, “if the little rascal doesn’t mind.”

“Max? You okay with that?”

Max offered him a thumbs-up.

“He says he’s okay with that,” David informed Gwen, and that had been that. The two of them had chatted for a while longer, and then David had hung up and ushered Max along to bed. He’d curled up under his blankets with Mr. Honeynuts, warm and safe and content. It had been a good evening, all things considered—so he really doesn’t  _ fucking  _ understand why he has a nightmare that night, of all nights.

It’s a horribly vivid nightmare—his most vivid one yet, he thinks. His dreams are seldom pleasant, although they’re never outright horrible. They’re confusing, emotional things, but nothing he can’t shake off after a few minutes of deep breathing and hugging Mr. Honeynuts. Tonight, however? Tonight is worse.

In his dream, he’s home again. Mama sleeps in her armchair, her head tipped back and a baggie of meth on the coffee table. Max tiptoes out of his bedroom and into the living room, gently reaching up to jostle her arm. “Mama?” 

Mama doesn’t respond, but even seeing her sends a sudden shard of homesickness through Max’s chest. His throat tight, Max crawls into the armchair and burrows against his side, pulling her arm over his shoulders the way he’d done when he was younger and needier. She smells just like he remembers, cheap perfume and cigarettes. He rests his head against her shoulder, sighing heavily. 

A second later, something cold splatters against the back of his hand. He flinches in surprise, jerking his hand back to himself, but it’s only water. Tipping his head back, he glances at the ceiling. A damp, dark spot creeps out from underneath the light. Another drop of water wobbles at the edge of the spot, then splashes down and lands on his nose. Huh. Papa should probably fix that when he gets home from work.

Until then, though, Max ought to catch the water with something so Papa doesn’t get pissed when he notices a wet spot on the floor. He scrambles back out of the armchair, snagging a saucepot from the kitchen. When he returns, Mama is gone and the armchair is absent—he doesn’t question this dream logic. Instead, he settles the pot beneath the drip and stands back, setting his hands on his hips as the water begins to drop into it instead of onto the floor.

David would be proud. He always did say Max was good at building things—this barely counts as building, but if he knows David (and he does) it’ll impress him anyway.

Then Max notices the water creeping in under the front door. He walks over, scowling down at it when it laps the edges of his sneakers. What, is there a monsoon outside or some shit? He grabs a few towels from the bathroom and wedges them up against the crack at the bottom of the door to keep the water from coming in. That works for a little while, and then the water bleeds through the towels and continues to creep across the floor and Max gets just a little nervous. He actually  _ wishes  _ Papa would come home early, if only to fix this mess. Maybe David would know what to do…?

Max heads upstairs (ignores the fact that the layouts of his apartment and David’s house are beginning to bleed together) and knocks on David’s door. “David?” he calls. No one answers. Annoyed, Max pushes the door open. David’s room is empty, and water stands a few inches on the floor. When the door opens, it begins to flood out, heading for the stairs. Where the hell  _ is  _ David, anyway? It’s too late at night for him to be at work.

More than a little worried now, Max makes his way back downstairs. He clings tightly to the handrail on the stairs as he descends them, unwilling to slip on the wet steps. All this water won’t be good for his cast—speaking of, where  _ is  _ his cast? Did he already have it taken off? He glances at his right arm, turning it around. Smooth brown skin as far as he can see. No cast, no atrophied muscle or stitches, not even a scar from the surgery. How lucky is that?

When he reaches the bottom of the staircase, he finds the floor covered in water. The water coming from the ceiling has become a constant drizzle, and the front door has swung open, pushing the towels back. Outside, he sees the front yard, and he sees heavy black clouds hanging low overhead. Water pours from the sky, a cold-hearted deluge that has Max stumbling back up the stairs—until then the ceiling caves in, that is.

Max shouts as plaster begins to fall in chunks around him, splashing into the water on the floor. He bolts for the kitchen, cramming himself under the table and waiting for the dust to settle. When it finally does, the top of the house is open to the storm. The water rises impossibly fast. He crawls out from under the table, and when he stands, the water comes up to his knees. His heart thundering in his chest, he heads for the front door—then he glimpses a lump of sodden brown fur and chokes on his breath.

“Mr. Honeynuts!” Max lunges for his bear, scooping him out of the water and cradling him close to his chest. He’s soaked through, and he seems to have lost some stuffing, but otherwise he looks fine. Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, Max heads for the front door. When he’s a few feet away, it suddenly slams closed, and he jumps and holds Mr. Honeynuts that much tighter. He jiggles the doorknob, but it doesn’t move. He tries the windows, next, but they won’t open either—besides, all he sees outside of them is darkness.

Bute can handle this, he’s still got this! He’ll just climb over one of the walls and make his way out through the giant gaping hole that used to be the ceiling. (He doesn’t know where he’ll go after that, and he dares not think about it for too long.) With renewed determination, Max drags the kitchen table into the living room and braces it against the wall. He stacks one of the kitchen chairs on top of it, then climbs up until he can see over the wall, and...oh.

Around the house churns an ocean of dark, vast water. Above him, the sky growls ominously, and he realizes with a sudden, sickening jolt that there’s nowhere for him to go. There is nowhere safe, there is nothing beyond this storm, and he is going to drown. 

“That’s why she did the drugs, you know,” Papa says. Max turns—he’s sitting on top of their refrigerator as the water creeps up and up and up. His eyes glitter uncannily pale and green in the lightning flashes from above. “Your mother. It was easier than drowning.”

“Yeah, well.” Max hooks his fingers into the wall, ignoring the splinters that prick his fingertips as he hauls himself up to stand on top of it. “She was drowning because of you, asshole.”

“I’ll take part of the blame, sure. But you know, she didn’t get really bad until after she had you. Don’t get me wrong, she was bad after she lost your sister, but—” Papa whistles. “Boy, after she had you. You scared the shit out of her. More than I did, even. Easier for her to use the drugs, easier to stop caring. You know what that’s like, huh? Not caring. You’re good at that, and why not? You come by it honestly.”

Guilt sticks to Max like tar. His breath shakes in his chest. “Shut up.”

Thunder cracks overhead, and lightning follows it—green, repulsive lightning. When Papa speaks again, his voice is whiplash sharp. “You don’t speak to your father that way, you imputent little fuck. You know how hard I work for you? How hard I work to keep a roof over our heads and your junkie mother off of the streets? Can you even  _ begin  _ to comprehend what I have sacrifice for you to have this life, and  _ this  _ is how you repay me? You ungrateful, worthless bastard. Wait until David finds out.”

Max’s foot slips, and he cries out as his leg slips into the water. There are  _ things  _ down there, he’s suddenly convinced—enormous looming things with wicked teeth and claws to drag him under with them. “Don’t talk about David,” he gasps, crouching low to keep his balance on top of the wall. “You don’t get to talk about him.”

“Or what?” Papa asks, and Max doesn’t—he can’t, he’s not—“Or nothing. You’re helpless. You couldn’t stop me from hurting you, couldn’t stop me from hurting your mama, couldn’t stop me from hurting David, even. You control nothing. You’re at the mercy of the waves here, bud.”

“Don’t call me that,” Max says, his voice choked. The water laps at his ankles, the force of the waves threatening to unbalance him. He stuffs Mr. Honeynuts into his shirt so he can use both hands to grip the wall. 

“Would you like  _ kiddo  _ better?”

“I would like for you to  _ shut up!”  _ Max’s voice cracks as he shouts, and the waves suddenly surge forward. They topple him over the side of the wall and into the ocean on the other side. He breaks the surface gasping, his mouth full of salt and his hair sticking to his face. He slicks his curls back before desperately beginning to paddle, but he doesn’t know how to swim and Papa was right, he’s helpless, he’s so  _ fucking helpless  _ in the face of everything, helpless and powerless and worthless and—

And he’s sinking, he realizes. Mr. Honeynuts is a sudden lead weight in his shirt, hauling him beneath the waves. When the hell did that little bear get so  _ heavy?  _ It must be all the water soaked into his stuffing—Max doesn’t think the poor thing’ll ever be dry again. His head bobs beneath the waves, and he chokes on a mouthful of dark water as he yanks Mr. Honeynuts out of his shirt and fights his way to the surface again with the bear clamped in one fist.

“You have to let him go,” Papa says, standing on the same wall Max had been standing on seconds earlier. “He’s dragging you down.”

“Fuck off!”

“He’s dead weight. If you keep him, he’ll hurt you. Now I know you care about him, but if he cared about you—well, if he cared about you, he’d want to drown so you could live. Isn’t what love’s all about, anyway? Sacrifice?”

The waves drag him under again, fill his mouth and eyes with stinging salt. He claws his way up again, coughing violently and hugging Mr. Honeynuts as tightly as he can. He’s not letting go. He  _ can’t.  _ Mr. Honeynuts needs him. He’s Max’s responsibility, and Max isn’t just going to let him  _ drown! _

“Sentimental shit, son. He isn’t worth your time. You’re better than he is, and you both know it. Just drop him. Send him back where he belongs, and when he gets there—” Papa’s eyes (snake’s eyes) flash in the dark. “—he’ll have what he’s earned.”

No,  _ no!  _ Max swats wildly at the waves that threaten to batter him under again, but with one arm and a dead weight, it’s a losing battle. When he goes under again, he can’t get back up. Water forces its way down his nostrils, into his throat, and when he gasps it  _ burns  _ in his chest. He chokes, air bubbles drifting their way to the surface. He tears his gaze away from the storm above to look at Mr. Honeynuts, who looks solemnly back at him.

_ He should want to drown. _

Mr. Honeynut’s sodden fur slips between his fingers. Panicked, Max digs his nails in. He can’t let go. He can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t,  _ he can’t— _ he knows what happens to Mr. Honeynuts if he lets go. He knows that there are monsters in this ocean and a stuffed bear is helpless to fight any of them off no matter how hard he tries. Max is his protector. Max keeps the monsters away. If Max lets go, then—then—

A sudden hard current strikes the both of them, tearing Mr. Honeynuts from Max’s grip. Within seconds, the darkness around them swallows Mr. Honeynuts, and Max is screaming. He doesn’t even want to make it to the surface, not without his bear. Grief crushes him more thoroughly than an entire ocean ever could, and he sobs (doesn’t question how he can still sob, when his lungs are filled with saltwater) and tears his hair and pleads for someone, anyone, to please,  _ please  _ bring his baby back.

Thunder cracks overhead, sharp and demanding, and Max’s eyes snap open. Lightning flashes around him, rain rattling angrily on the house’s tin roof. The ocean has vanished, but his face is still wet and he can’t fucking  _ breathe.  _ He chokes on his sobs, his vision fracturing through his tears. The blankets are suddenly too close, too heavy, too much—he feels like he’s drowning in them. He claws his way out, landing with a  _ thump  _ on the bedroom floor and cracking his cast against the bedside table. 

Somewhere down the hallway, he hears a door creak open. Heavy footsteps come down the hall, and Max panics. He dives for his bed, wedging himself underneath it and watching the crack underneath his bedroom door with wide eyes. Shadows stream underneath it, driven forward by the hallway nightlight David had insisted they needed. Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door. Max flinches and huddles closer to the floor.

“Max?” David calls. “Are you alright?”

Max stares at the door, swallowing hard. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to move. He wants to hold very, very still until he’s left alone again. Unfortunately, he really doesn’t think David is going to accept that. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and says, his voice cracking, “‘m fine.”

“Are you sure?” David asks, worrying clear in his voice. “I thought I heard something fall. Can I—can I come in?”

Max doesn’t respond. There’s a lump in his throat, and he can’t get rid of it, no matter how hard he swallows. 

“Okay, bud, coming in. Just, uh, throw something if you want me out.” David eases the door open, and Max watches him with glinting, wary eyes. He hesitates when he doesn’t find Max in his bed, wavering on his feet. His socks, Max notices, have tiny deer on them. “Max?”

When David kneels to look under the bed, Max can’t meet his eyes. His heart thunders in his chest, and he can’t get his fingers to stop shaking. Tears wobble on the edges of his jaw, threatening to fall to the carpet before he swipes them away with a rough hand. 

“Oh, Max,” David says, his voice soft and sad. “Hey, it’s okay. Was it the storm that scared you? It’ll be over soon—I think we slept through the worst of it.”

Another blistering flash of light illuminates the room, followed by a vicious  _ crack  _ of thunder that has Max cowering against the wall. The hallway nightlight flickers off, leaving them ensconced in darkness. Max’s lower lip wobbles precariously. He hates this. He hates literally everything about this night.

“Or, um, not,” David amends. He turns the flash on his phone on, setting the phone facedown on the carpet so it can lend the room some of its weak, watery light. “I’ll go reset the breaker as soon as it’s passed. Are you...okay?”

“Had a bad dream,” Max says, his voice a miserable rasp. “Sorry.”

“No, no, you don’t have to be sorry. It’s alright. Everybody has bad dreams sometimes—they’re nothing to be ashamed about.” 

“I woke you up.”

“No, the storm did that. You did startle me, though—I heard you fall out of bed and I thought something bad had happened.” David offers him a small smile. “But I’m glad to see you’re alright, and I think I know what might make you feel better.”

Max watches suspiciously as David reaches for something on his bed. David holds it at eye-level, and Max’s breath stutters in his chest. Mr. Honeynuts! Max wants nothing more than to grab him and hold him tight and never let him go, never ever, but he hesitates. He reaches slowly for his bear, half-expecting it to be torn away again in some cruel manipulation—he knows, logically, that David wouldn’t do that, but—but—

But what if he  _ did? _

He doesn’t. He lets Max take Mr. Honeynuts, and as soon as David releases him, Max jerks the bear to his chest and curls up tightly around him. He breathes in the smell of perfume and cigarettes, his eyes stinging. Mr. Honeynuts’ fur is comfortingly dry, worn soft and matted from years of use. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” David offers, still kneeling at the foot of the bed. 

Max shakes his head. 

“Okay. Do you want a hug?”

Max shakes his head again.

David nods, then turns around and sits with his back to Max, leaning against the bed. “Is it okay if I stay here until the storm’s gone?”

“Yeah,” Max whispers. 

In the distance, the sky rumbles ominously. Max takes a deep breath, shoving his face further into Mr. Honeynut’s fur. 

“I told you about Jasper, right?” David asks. When Max mumbles a confirmation, he continues, “Well, he was terrified of thunderstorms. One night—this was back when I was still a little mischief-maker—I snuck out of our tent after dark and went to explore the forest. I think mostly I was doing it to annoy the counselors, but the forest  _ is  _ pretty cool at night. Anyway, I guess I woke Jasper while I was packing my bag, because he followed me out there.”

Max wipes his eyes, his tears finally beginning to ebb as he listens to David’s ridiculous story. At least the storm should be over by the time he’s done—he’s  _ so  _ long-winded.

“I didn’t realize he was following me, but I kept hearing all these noises—branches snapping, rocks falling, that sort of thing. I was convinced a mountain lion was about to eat me. So I grab the biggest rock I can find, and I climb up into this little oak tree and wait. Jasper comes along the path a few minutes later, and I was so mad when I saw him! I threw the rock—not to hit him, just to scare him—and it must’ve worked, because he screamed and nearly jumped out of his own skin.”

David chuckles, stretching his legs out in front of him. Lightning snaps outside Max’s windows again, throwing pale patches of light across the carpet. Max takes a few more deep, slow breaths and pushes his hair out of his face. 

“We argued—when did we not, right?—and eventually I headed back towards camp, because what was the fun of exploring if  _ he  _ had to tag along, right? Except on the way back, it started storming, and we got all turned around. We hid out in this little cave, and Jasper was just beside himself. I guess I was pretty nervous, too. I’d never been out in a storm like that. We had no idea what to do. Jasper wanted to sit and wait for the storm to pass, but I wanted to go through it and find our way back to camp.”

“Sounds like you,” Max mumbles, pulling himself out from under the bed. He sits next to David, leaning back against the foot of his bed and settling Mr. Honeynuts in his lap. 

David offers him a grin. “You think so?”

“Yeah. Harebrained, but—” Max shrugs. “Kinda brave, I guess.”

“Well, it was certainly harebrained. Jas and I argued about that, too—and by the time we’d finished arguing, the storm was already moving on. It was still raining pretty good, but there wasn’t much lightning anymore, and the wind had died down. So I, being Mr. Macho Man, stomped out there to get back to camp with or without Jasper. Of course, the second I set foot out of our little cave, I slipped on a patch of mud and fell right into it. Jas never let me live that one down.”

Max snorts, rubbing his eyes. “I’d never let you live that down, either.”

“It was pretty funny,” David admits. He takes a deep breath, then climbs to his feet and stretches. “Well, looks like things are starting to settle down. I’m gonna go flip the breaker. You should try to go back to sleep—you’ve got school tomorrow.”

Max groans, scrubbing his face with his palms. 

David hesitates, then opens Max’s bedroom door and sweeps an arm out. “Okay, come on. You can stay up a  _ little  _ longer, but you’re not getting out of school, mister. Watch your step, especially on the stairs. It’s dark.”

“No shit,” Max mumbles, but he does keep a tight grip on the handrail as he follows David downstairs. He takes a seat at the breakfast bar while David heads for the garage—a few seconds later, he returns and flips the kitchen light on.

“Tada! Let there be light,” he says cheerfully before setting a saucepot on the stove. He pours in milk, then leans back against the cabinet and yawns. “Time’s it, anyway?”

Max glances at David’s phone, which he’d scooped up as they left the bedroom. “Three.”

“Yikes.” When the milk on the stove begins to bubble, David stirs in a spoonful of honey and a dash of cinnamon. He ladles the concoction into two mugs, setting them down on the breakfast bar with a gentle  _ clink.  _ “My mom used to make this all the time when she couldn’t sleep.”

Max releases his vise grip on Mr. Honeynuts with one hand, reaching out to curl his fingers around the warm ceramic of the mug. David takes a seat next to him, wrapping his fingers around his own mug. They both drink—the milk is bland (not as good as chocolate milk, naturally) but soothing. It eases the scratchy ache in Max’s throat left over from his sobs. As they sit together in the quiet, they can hear the storm rolling farther away. The thunder becomes a distant grumble—an afterthought to the dull lightning that flickers every few minutes. 

“Ready to head back up?” David asks, gathering their empty mugs and setting them in the sink. “We’re gonna be tired in the morning.”

“When are we not?” Max asks, padding sleepily up the stairs after David. David checks the lights as they go, flicking each one on and off to ensure that it works. He leads the way into Max’s room, carefully rearranging the tangled mess Max had made of his blankets before standing back. 

“Thanks,” Max says quietly, taking a seat on the corner of the mattress. 

“Anything for you.” David reaches out, tousling his hair gently. “Good night, Max.”

“Night, David.”

David shuts the door with a soft  _ click  _ as he leaves, and Max collapses back onto the bed. His eyes ache, and there’s a nervous buzz in his chest that not even exhaustion can quell. He rolls over, tucking Mr. Honeynuts tightly to himself and rubbing his cheek across the bear’s soft fur as he gazes out his window. Rain splatters the glass—a gentle, lulling drum. 

“I’d never leave you,” Max murmurs to Mr. Honeynuts. “Not for anything.”

_ But,  _ whispers a sinister little voice in the back of his head,  _ he should want to drown. _

Max doesn’t sleep again that night.


End file.
